The Curious Case of the Riders of Apocalypse
by Jaelijn
Summary: After the strenuous Mile-Case, Holmes and Watson travel to the country to rest. But the past catches up with them, and they are involved in a gruesome crime... Sequel to the Announced Crime, reading first recommended. No slash!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: My full length stories are back! As always, all canon characters, while public domain, were created by ACD and not by me. _

_This is the sequel to The Singular Affair of the Announced Crime, which I recommend reading first in order to catch the allusions. However, this is a stand-alone mystery. _

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**The Curious Case of the Riders Of Apocalypse**

**Chapter 1**

After the successful conclusion of the Eduardo-Mile-Case, my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes was in dire need for rest.

Although he relished the habit of lying listlessly on the sofa of our common sitting room, it was evident to me that after three weeks of idleness, the sombre fogs of London did not agree well with his health and recovery. It was therefore that I was only too glad to accept an offer by Mrs Hudson, who informed me that her niece, who bore her maiden name, Duncan, was eager to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes and had long since invited us both. Our landlady had not mentioned this offer previously since both Miss Marian Duncan and her fiancé Mr Charles Hood lived in a small cluster of buildings that did not quite deserve to be called village, by the name of Irby, and Mrs Hudson knew well that such idyllic environments held little appeal for my friend.

I wholeheartedly agreed that it was perfect for another week of undisturbed recreation and therefore decided to accept the invitation for both of us without consulting Holmes first, for I knew well that, given the choice, he would decline. As it were, his distaste was still evident as we were already bundled up in the carriage that would take us from Nottingham station to Irby. His barely mended right arm, which had been badly broken during the last case and had condemned him to inaction for the most part, and his shattered nerves aside, he suffered from the darkest depression I had seen of. It deprived him of any energy he might have possessed, and truth be told, it was quite evident even to a casual observer that he wasn't well. His face was pale, his skin colourless, almost translucent. Dark circles below his eyes spoke of nights with little or no sleep and the eyes themselves would not open fully since the conclusion of the case, and lacked their usual brightness.

His mood was so vile that I had even sent a wire to Irby to warn Miss Duncan. Her answering telegram had been most charming and humorous and she renewed her invitation.

During the journey, Holmes was huddled up in one corner of the carriage, wrapped in a thick blanket Mrs Hudson had forced upon him. His chin had sunk onto his chest and he was apparently asleep, but I knew better. If sleep came at all those days, it was not in the least undisturbed.

"Really, Holmes, you have my sympathy for how you feel, and I do understand, but you must behave yourself in front of Mrs Hudson's niece. She may not be as long-suffering as her aunt. It's very kind of her to invite us."

Holmes snorted in dismay. "She will not see much of me, anyhow, and both you and Mrs Hudson have moved mountains to convinced me that she was – how was the phrase? – 'most charming'?"

"As a matter of fact, Mrs Hudson merely said that she was the best cook in the family."

Holmes glared at me and lapsed into silence again.

Marian Duncan awaited us in the front parlour of her home, a small but roomy house situated right in the middle of a well-tended garden which would not pale in comparison with Mrs Hudson's own pride and joy. The house itself was covered with ivy, but the windows were kept perfectly clean and I caught a glimpse of bright blue shutters between the dark leaves. The wooden front door and the garden fence were both painted in a joyous red. It was a welcoming home in every respect.

"Dr Watson and Mr Holmes, I presume. Welcome to Irby, gentlemen." She offered her hand in a very self-confident fashion, and I shook it instead of kissing it, as she had apparently intended, for she smiled brightly and her eyes twinkled merely as she turned to nod to my friend, who, to my surprise, returned the greeting with sincerity. Apparently, Miss Duncan knew instinctively how to deal with the singular detective, as did her aunt. "My name is Marian Duncan, as you do no doubt know, but Marian really will suffice. Does my humble home stand up to your scrutiny, Mr Holmes?"

She had noticed Holmes's look which had travelled on after a fleeting glance on her face to examine the parlour and the building. He did not answer but strolled away, down the garden path which led behind the house. I was about to reprimand him when Marian stopped me. "It's fine. I believe he will find my home to his liking. It's quiet, and you will have the upper floor to yourselves. There are two bedrooms waiting for you, and the fire in the sitting room has been lit. I have turned it into a library and music room for myself, I hope you won't mind my piano."

"Holmes plays the violin himself."

"Yes, of course. Here, let me help you with you luggage, John – may I?"

"Certainly! I'd be delighted." As commonplace my Christian name was, I secretly relished it when someone addressed me with it. Holmes would never do that, and I had never dared to offer such a familiarity which was apparently abhorrent to his cold and reasoning mind, however close our friendship had become over the years. Marian Duncan was clearly a very independent and self-confident woman who would not ascribe any false sense of romance to such a habit, aside from the fact that she was engaged.

I handed her Holmes's violin case just as the man himself ventured back from his stroll.

"Is my humble home to your liking, Sherlock?" Marian asked, and I winced inwardly as Holmes's face clouded instantly, his brow furrowed. His voice was almost a growl as he answered.

"I would much prefer 'Mr Holmes', Miss Duncan."

The smile had been wiped from her face, but now she nodded with sincerity. "Of course. I am sorry. Well, shall we?"

She showed us up the stairs and into her music room after pointing out the two bedrooms to us. They were hard to miss, for they presented the only doors on the upper floor. With the advice to get settled, she left us to ourselves, announcing that tea was to be served in half an hour.

I greatly appreciated the fact that she took no offence to Holmes's rude behaviour, which only served to deepen my respect for Mrs Hudson's niece. Her home was furnished with the greatest care and love. Each piece of the furniture matched the next, and all were of a distinct, yet very quiet elegance, much like our host herself. The music room exuded a homely aroma of wood, fire and freshly baked cake.

Holmes, taciturn and introspective, made an effort out of placing his violin case on the piano with geometrical precision before he darted out of the room and threw open both bedroom doors. After a moment of indecision, he walked into the one facing away from the road.

I had followed him slowly, and could tell even from my place by the door where I deposited Holmes's luggage that the window commanded a superb view of the countryside. I was certain that Holmes had no regard for such rural beauty, but all the same it was evident from his behaviour that he decided to use this room.

"I take it you will stay in this one?"

"If you don't mind," he said devoid of the humour the phrase would have required.

"I don't. Get settled, and then join me for a piece of delicious cake and tea, and I will leave you alone after that."

He tested the bed, rearranging the fluffy cushions and folding the blanket he had brought. "Very well."

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_A/N: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter, and would like to ask you to leave a review - digital cookies go to anyone who does. _

_Sadly, updates will be sporadic. But I'm not forgetting!  
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	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: The next chapter for you! Thank you all for the warm welcome back! ;)_

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**The Curious Case of the Riders Of Apocalypse**

**Chapter 2**

To my surprise, he made his reappearance even before I ventured to ask him if he'd care for some dinner. Marian had announced it for seven-thirty, and it was now barely seven o'clock.

Holmes ignored my curious gazes and flipped open the lid of the violin case to take out the instrument, surprising me further by playing a sequence of my own favourites, blending them into one another. I could hear no flaw whatsoever in his playing, but admittedly I was hardly an expert, and his face was grave when he ceased the playing rather abruptly and slumped into an armchair opposite mine. His injured arm was cradled tightly against his chest, showing me all too clearly that the playing had evidently pained him. His limb would continue to be stiff for at least another week, and although Holmes was not oblivious to the medical necessity, he chafed at the restrictions his body placed upon him, which only aggravated his depression.

"Now, Holmes, don't look so bleak. I heard no flaw in your playing."

"You wouldn't," said he, facing me. I was quite taken aback by the sadness reflected in those grey orbs. "But, if you forgive me for saying so, many of you favourites are quite simple from the point of view of a musician, or, at least they are hardly complex works. And still there were flaws."

I would have offered some words of comfort, but I knew they were unwelcome, and thus I kept my peace, touched in my very soul by his despair.

After a while, Holmes sighed heavily and pulled up his knees towards his breast. "It was a mistake to come here, Watson."

"Why do you say so? We have been warmly welcomed, and Miss Duncan is a very patient and understanding host. She will leave you to your own devices. Besides, you do need the rest. Don't think I have not noticed that you have barely slept at all those past weeks. London is not very helpful in the matters of health."

"You don't know how bored I've been!"

"Yes, I do, and it is uncalled for. You could have entertained yourself with a book at any time. And for your arm to regain its full functionality, you will have to rest, even if I have to force it upon you. You really needn't be so harsh to our hostess."

Holmes sprang to his feet in a catlike movement and strolled over to the window. "You are forgetting your promise, Doctor."

The coldness with which he addressed me did not escape me. "I will not stand by and watch how you destroy yourself, both as a friend and as a medical man."

He did not answer, but continued to stare out of the window, although I was quite convinced that he did not really observe.

Uncomfortable, I cleared my throat. "Well, I am going for a brief walk after dinner. Would you care to join me? I will not force you, but I'd be delighted if you would."

"No." He lowered his gaze. "I appreciate your concern, Watson, but it will be better for both of us if you leave me alone for the time being. I have no desire to harm our friendship with some harsh and uncalled-for remark."

I knew that this was the closest approach to an apology he would offer for his behaviour and thus did not pursue the matter further. "I trust that is Miss Duncan with our dinner on the stair."

"Right you are, John," chimed her voice down the hallway and she floated in, carrying a large tray of food which she deposited at the table between myself and Holmes's position at the window.

"_Bon appetit_, gentlemen. I'm afraid I can't join you. I have arranged a meeting with my fiancé as soon as his daily work on the farm is done, which is about now. Charles, that is, Mr Hood, will be expecting me."

I smiled kindly at her. "Of course we do not mind, Miss."

"Marian, Doctor, remember! Enjoy your meal!"

After she had left, I seated myself at the table, eager to learn the contents of my plate that were hidden below a cloche to keep them warm.

I hadn't yet relished my anticipation long enough to start when Holmes joined me at the table. His silence was unnerving, but soon forgotten when I saw and smelt the delicious dish she had served us. The mouth-watering smell of curry assailed my nose and made me pick up knife and fork in eagerness.

However, my joy was somewhat diminished when Holmes, in one sudden, flourish movement, threw down his cutlery, uncaring about the fact that the fork bounced off the table and clattered to the floor. He had rushed out of the room before I could quite grasp what was happening.

"Holmes! Where are you going?"

He was already at the head of the stairs. "I'm going for a walk. Enjoy your meal."

It was of no use to follow him. I could not for the life of me fathom what had been going on in his head, nor did I attempt to do so. Knowing Holmes, he would tell me in due time, if he thought it necessary for me to know.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: As always, medcat has been kind enough to proofread my story. Thanks!_

_And here is the third chapter! Remember to review!_

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**Chapter 3**

He returned late in the evening; the same, all too familiar expression of exhaustion on his face I had come to know so well over the last weeks. He smiled at me ruefully and placed his hand on the violin case as if he was considering playing again, but then turned his back to it rather quickly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm going to bed."

It was strange enough that he announced it but did not move to carry out his decision, but I also perceived that he was guarding his expression very closely.

"I wish you would talk to me about it, Holmes. I know what you have gone through, but all the same I am certain, both as a friend and as a doctor, that there is more to it now than meets the eye."

"Haven't you quite diligently described my 'black moods' to the public?"

"This is no ordinary black mood, Holmes."

"Ah, it seems the art of deduction is indeed contagious," he said with a faint shadow of his humour of old.

"So you do agree?"

"How did you know?"

"Well, you have not sought refuge in either cocaine or tobacco, yet you have not eaten a scrap, you are too harsh on yourself with the violin, and your behaviour towards Miss Duncan is odd to say the least."

To my surprise, he sighed and sat opposite to me in the second armchair, throwing his feet out to the little cheerful fire. "First things first. I haven't had any desire for tobacco or cocaine. I'm not averse to food in general, just this particular dish. I am making horrid mistakes in my playing, Watson, and it is... frustrating." He moved the fingers of the injured arm almost subconsciously, and I watched an expression of pain flicker across his face.

"The pain will pass eventually, old friend. Your arm will regain its full functionality – all you have to do is be patient."

"I know." He avoided my gaze. "As for Miss Duncan... Her voice reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago – long before we met."

"Indeed?" Any element of Holmes's past piqued my interest, but I would not press him. "What was wrong with the dish?"

"Merely another reminder, Watson. You know, it was Mycroft's favourite dish." Again, that rueful smile that was so novel to his features, and so disturbing played around his lips. "Now, we can barely even look at it."

"You have never spoken to me about your past," I prompted, as gently as I could. There had been many publications of late, dealing with the effect of childhood experiences on the human psyche. I wished dearly to relieve Holmes of such a burden.

"I appreciate the fact that you never asked, Watson."

Having gone so far, I could hardly stop now. "Would you tell me now about that woman? Who was she?"

"Our aunt – or that's what we called her. She was a niece to Horace Vernet, as was my mother, but from a different branch of the family." He rose and walked over to the window. "She worked as a music teacher for children, and, living in France, only visited very seldom in the early years of my existence. However, as Mycroft and I grew up, and my parents never saw fit to engage a governess for us, Celine took a liking in us and moved in – she got into the habit of looking after us where our parents failed to do so, whenever she had the time.

"Now, I really cannot recall ever being so happy than in those years. We used to live in a house very similar to this one, if much larger – Mycroft would call it eerie whenever our parents were not listening. We were never rich, mind you, but it was always enough to make for a decent living."

I was very much surprised that Holmes had finally started to talk to me about his childhood, which had been his closest-guarded secret ever since we met, and although I listened to every word of his tale with intense fascination and interest, I find myself unable to recall his exact words. I therefore see it fit to retell his story in my own.

The Holmes estate was located in the countryside of Cornwall, surrounded by nothing but landscape. The next house was miles away, and so was the village. It had been a necessity for the family to maintain two horses and a carriage, which the two boys used regularly. However, Mycroft was sent away to school as soon as he was old enough.

It was never a joyful household. Due to the loneliness and isolation, the bond between the two brothers was strong, but, of course, Mycroft, as the elder, was the parents' favourite. He had then developed a certain masterfulness that Sherlock scarcely disobeyed. They were close, and trusted each other.

Their parents, however, were not the loving people my own had been.

The father was a stern and harsh man, and he wanted Mycroft to grow up just like him. The mother shared in that wish. If it had not been for her desire for a daughter in addition to the son she had, Sherlock would never have been born.

Holmes only allowed me a glimpse at the treatment and punishment they had received as children, even for perfectly natural emotional displays. The parents cared little about their deductive abilities, and it was Mycroft who introduced his younger brother to that particular art that would become his livelihood.

Mycroft was to become a soldier like his father, but lacked the energy to pursue said goal. Sherlock, being of more energetic nature, was considered as being suited perfectly for such a life the parents had wished for their first-born, and therefore was looked down upon as a cruel joke of nature, or fate.

When the mother conceived for the third time, this time the daughter she had hoped for, she miscarried and died, along with the child.

The father, having a disposition for drink from the first, sought refuge in a bottle, and turned his rage upon the child neither he nor his wife had wanted.

Young Mycroft was the one person that stood in his way, but he could not go too far without being disinherited and thrown out. Still, their father was bent on isolating Sherlock further, and Mycroft was send away to school.

While Holmes did not reveal much, I could easily imagine how horrible life had been for him from the way he tensed and closed his eyes as if to shut out the memories his mind conjured up. However, his voice became less grave when he started talking about Celine.

Being the exact opposite of his mother, she chose Sherlock as her protégé. She shared his love for books and his interest in crime, and – most of all – in music. It was she who taught him to play the violin, which he learned with great delight, and also the piano. She stood up for him in front of his father where Mycroft could not, and she encouraged him to use his deductive abilities, much as his brother did whenever he could come home.

Holmes's face clouded, and he flipped open the lid of his violin case to place his hand on the strings as if to draw strength from it before he continued. Still, his gaze was vacant, transfixed on old times.

One day, his father came home hopelessly drunk. It was a holiday, and Mycroft was home. He told his younger brother to stay out of the way, which he fully intended to do. Father Holmes deliberately sought him out, and, had Mycroft not intervened, would have killed the boy. But he would not do it in front of the elder brother.

Mycroft, having learned of the trust his brother placed in Celine, naturally turned to her for help. Sherlock had told him that she had stood up against their father more than once already, and indeed she did not hesitate as soon as she was notified.

While Mycroft was left to comfort his sobbing and hurt brother, Celine went to confront the father in the latter's study.

The boys could hear the argument, and actually joined her – Mycroft had tried to prevent it, but the younger would not leave her side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

Sherlock Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper by that moment, and I rose to join him by the piano to understand him at all. "He hit her, Watson, but she would not back down. I don't remember what they said.

"Ultimately, he cornered her, and I have no doubt that he would have directed his rage at her, had she been male. As a female..."

He did not continue the sentence, but it was no mystery to me what he implied. "Go on," I prompted gently, much as he did when he talked to his clients.

For the first time since he had started his narrative, Holmes met my gaze with his, and instead of the glimpse of his magnificent intellect that was usually visible in his stare, I for once could see the hurt and terrified young boy behind it.

"There does not remain much to tell. When she broke free, she fled, without a second glance. Mycroft – he had frozen, much like I had – now yelled at our father, and knocked him unconscious as he charged at us... but the events are a blur. I must confess, I am rather glad that my memory fails me on that account.

"It was a wet night, it had been raining all day. The driveway was always slippery. She had taken the carriage, and the accident happened just at the point where the driveway met the road. We heard the horses. Mycroft tried to keep me inside, but I could not... Her skull was cracked open. She had died instantly."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. Her death was not the thing that drove me out of my mind for several weeks, and the one question I fail to solve even now. It wasn't even guilt. The accident was not my fault. It was selfishness, Watson. I felt... abandoned. She had left me in the crucial moment. She had run away... And yet, I did blame myself. For... trusting her in the first place."

He started violently when I placed my hand on his shoulder. "I understand."

Holmes shifted away from under my hand, closed the violin case and sat down again. "You never were a good liar, Watson. Regardless, that dish was the one Celine had made for us that very night."

"Miss Duncan didn't know that."

"No, of course not. I fear it is beyond my control – I just cannot bear the look, or even the smell of it... Don't you want to go to bed now, Watson?"

I understood that he wanted to be alone, and I was only to glad to grant him his wish. I felt that we both needed to reflect on what he had told me. While I was deeply flattered that his trust in me was deep enough to tell me about his past, and, more so, his childhood, what he had said was quite true – I could not imagine, or even understand, how he could have reacted so callously, although it, of course, explained a great deal, especially his reticence to trust anyone. Maybe, in a way, he had indeed loved Celine, as a child loves his mother, and still felt that his love had caused harm to himself and those around him.

The recent medical theories considered problematic relationships to one's parents to be the source of a variety of problems in later life, but I could not – and would not – accept that all my friend was, was a result of some misfortune in his early childhood.

I had not yet heard Holmes retire by the time I drifted off to sleep.

It did not surprise me to find him the next morning, curled up in the armchair he had settled down in when I had last seen him, fast asleep. Apparently, his exhaustion had taken its toll. I left him to his rest, although I covered him with a thin blanket and even tugged a little at his arm, which had stiffened and would only hurt more if he kept it in that position. Neither of which woke him.

Therefore, I went downstairs to take my breakfast in the company of Marian Duncan, who then went into town to buy some goods. I took at tray with breakfast up into the music room, where Holmes was now stirring.

"Go back to sleep if you want to. You need it."

He folded the blanket, and rose, still fully dressed, although he had at some point loosened his collar and opened the upper buttons of his shirt. He looked disturbed and dishevelled, almost haunted. "I am rather hungry."

"No wonder. You have skipped your evening meal. Here you are."

"You have already eaten, I take it."

"Yes. Nightmares, Holmes?"

His expression clouded over. "Yes."

"I shouldn't have forced you to recall those unpleasant memories."

"You didn't force me to do anything, Watson." He seated himself at the table and fumbled for a moment with his collar before he gave up and ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "Actually, I think it is good that you know."

"I will keep it out of my journals, of course."

Holmes poked around in his scrambled eggs, pushing them around the plate without actually eating. "Oh, do write it down, old fellow. I have no intention of mentioning the subject ever again. Just keep it among those unpublished accounts."

"As you wish." I sat on the windowsill and marvelled on the beauty of the countryside. I was eager to go for a walk in the fresh, but pleasant air, even though the constant worry for my friend had done little good for my own health. My leg throbbed continuously, a dull ache that would only pass when we had again reached happier times.

I heard the clattering of the fork on the plate, but as I turned again, Holmes had still not eaten one bit. He had only succeeded to building a wall of now smashed egg on the edge of his plate. Much to my amusement and worry, he did not seem to notice. "Holmes?"

His head snapped up in a gesture that was reminiscent of a frightened animal. It was only after some time that the haunted look left his eyes, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, what is it?" he snapped, rather brusquely.

"You do realise you are not actually eating, do you?"

He did not answer, but I took it as a good sign that he had not yet fled from the room. At some point during his black moods, he would usually seek the solitude of his own room, and not emerge for days on end. I knew this behaviour was equally driven by the definite desire to be alone, and, on the other hand, the desire to spare me from being a witness to his misery. Over the years, he had slowly learned that I was ready to help him whenever he fell prey to his depressions, and the occasions where he would lock himself in became fewer and fewer, for he knew that I would only worry more. Now, I was actually surprised and not a little flattered by how much this trust had advanced.

Sherlock Holmes sighed, and the misery of the sound was heart-wrenching. "Well. It doesn't look very edible now."

"Indeed."

He gave a wry chuckle and rose. "Were you going for a walk, Watson?"

"Yes, and I wish you to accompany me."

"Oh, my dear fellow, I don't know if that is such a good idea. I have no desire to spoil a beautiful day for you with my dumps."

"Then, as your doctor, I order you to come. The air and the sunshine will do you good."

"Whatever you say, Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Soon, we were walking briskly along the small road that led into the direction of Robin Farm, the homestead of Miss Marian Duncan's fiancé. The lady herself was working in the garden behind her own cottage, and we were not likely to meet her during our wanderings.

In the face of Holmes's current mood, I thought it wise to keep them apart. I deeply felt that my desire to help Holmes by taking him to the countryside had only worsened his condition. It is only natural, then, that I was desirous of remedying this error on my part.

While we were usually quite content to walk in silence, as becomes only two intimate friends, the stillness weighed heavily on my spirits that day.

Holmes trod along, his hands buried in his pockets – for some reason, he had not brought a walking stick – and it seemed to me that I could almost see the black and bitter cloud of misery surrounding his thin figure. Veiled in said blackness, he appeared almost fragile, an impression that was only enhanced by his uncharacteristically bent back.

For some time, I endured the silence, but eventually I found myself prattling away on some nonsensical subject in the desperate effort to cheer my friend up. He smiled politely and reservedly as I pointed out a bird nest to him, but apart from a muttered "_Turdus merula._" he did not say a word.

Once we reached Robin Farm, we were immediately welcomed by the owner himself, a jolly young man, brown as a nut from his work outdoors and on the fields. He was rather ordinary in size, but clad in a tight shirt that outlined his well-defined muscles, no doubt required in the course of his profession. His brownish hair was neatly trimmed and covered with a thin film of sweat, as was his flushed face. His blue eyes were very expressive and lined with wrinkles of laughter. I could easily imagine him as the husband of Miss Duncan, and felt the need to congratulate them both on the splendid match.

Holmes exchanged the most basic niceties with the man and was in turn eyed with curiosity, but Mr Hood, like his future wife, knew that it was better to leave my companion alone. Me, however, he invited to join him in a shoot in the nearby forest, a past-time he and several friends from the next village had planned for the afternoon. I was reluctant to agree, for Holmes did not enjoy such exercises, and I hesitated to leave him to his current mood.

When Hood left us to make preparations, I said as much to him.

"Go ahead, Watson. I will be fine."

"I know you are not. Don't do anything rash, Holmes."

A smile tugged at his lips. "Do I ever?"

"Where will you go?"

"I shall stay in the vicinity, never fear, Watson. You will find me somewhere on the farm when you return. I have my pipe with me, and will probably try enjoying the countryside you praise so highly."

"I shall be back as soon as possible."

"Enjoy yourself, Watson."

I returned in the late afternoon much invigorated and in high spirits, but my thoughts turned with worry to my friend as the stable lad informed us that he had not seen him for several hours.

I had the fear that the exposure to the repressed and thoroughly unpleasant trauma of his childhood combined with his previous depression had lead to a complete breakdown much like the state I had found him in when I had been called to his side in a hotel in Lyons. There was nothing life-threatening to these conditions, but they were disquieting for both of us.

It was the housemaid who eventually revealed Holmes's whereabouts – apparently, she had seen him walking towards the beehives, which were naturally located a short walk away from the house. I bid my farewells to Mr Hood and went to find my friend.

Holmes was leaning on a fence in safe distance from the hives, watching the comings and goings of the insects intensely. His hand was clutching the pipe, but it was unlit. "I see you are back."

"Yes. I'm sorry it took so long. I shot a pheasant."

"Well done, Watson. Observe." He pointed towards the hives and stowed his pipe in his pocket without moving from his position. His mood seemed much improved, and there was a sparkle in his grey eyes I had sorely missed those past weeks.

"Bees." The mere thought of coming in close proximity to the insects sent a shiver down my spine. I have never been able to suppress my loathing of their sting since I had been stung as a boy, no matter how often it was explained to me that it was mere self-defence, and that bees were actually quite harmless as long as they were not angered. The delicacy required to handle them sometimes reminded me of the same that was needed for living with Sherlock Holmes.

"Indeed. Fascinating creatures."

"Oh? You think so?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not venture closer?"

"They dislike the smell of smoke, Watson."

"You did not smoke."

"Very observant of you. No, I did not, but the smell still lingers on my clothes. Did you know that bees indulge in mass-homicide once a year?"

"They do?"

"Only few drones are allowed to woo the queen, an act in which they die. But the others are driven out of the hives by the tribe, to perish."

"I see. It seems death is always with us."

"So it seems." Holmes cleared his throat and turned to me. "Well, shall we go back?"

"It is getting rather dark."

"Of course. Come along, Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Yes, I still exist... I'm so terribly, horribly sorry for the recent lack of updates... As an apology, I offer you three chapters in a row! BTW, I have almost finished the story, and hope to speedily post it now...Remember to review!  
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**Chapter 6**

"What have you been doing all day?" I asked Holmes over the cold dinner we both eagerly consumed after our exposure to the fresh country air.

"Nothing much. I solved a little mystery for the stable lad."

"A mystery?"

"Yes." Holmes put down his cutlery. "He was receiving mysterious messages, pinned to various objects in his room.

"Each note contained one single letter, which, if arranged in the correct order, would produce a message, but he failed to discover how they had to be arranged. The obvious approach, chronologically, was impossible, and created a string of gibberish."

"Then how was it done – and what was the prospect of it?"

"That was quite simple. You know that even a small sample of writing is enough to deduce much about the writer, who, in this case, was obviously a woman, which was also suggestive as to the content. Indeed, in the message, she was asking the lad to marry her. Also, she was obviously member of the household, since she had access to his room without being noticed."

"But if not chronologically, how was he to discover in which way the letters need to be arranged?"

"They were pinned to objects, Watson, and never two messages on the same object. Now, this assortment of objects in itself was very deliberate. They were easily distinguishable in weight. All that had to be established now was whether the lightest or the heaviest was the first. It was the lightest."

"That is amazing."

"Elementary. The housemaid seems a clever, if childish, girl. Maybe I should have advised her against marrying so unobservant a fellow."

"Come now, Holmes!"

"Don't worry, old fellow. I don't intend to meddle."

"Well, I am certainly glad to see that it has improved your mood."

"Yes... I shall go to bed now, Watson."

"Of course." I had expected him to be tired after a night with little sleep and a day outside. "Sleep well, my friend."

I stayed up a while longer, busying myself with a novel that Holmes would have called romantic drivel, before I retired as well. Just as the night before, my room was a splendid resting place, small enough to be cosy, and large enough not to be oppressing. I succumbed to sleep quickly and with a lighter soul, calmed by the fact that Holmes was finally improving.

However, I was awoken in the dead of night by a terrified scream. Even in my addled state of semi-wakefulness I instantly recognised the voice of my friend, and to tell the truth, I was hardly surprised. Holmes had been susceptible to nightmares for as long as I have known him.

It was no wonder in face of the horrors we dealt with on daily basis, and after I had ignored his tossing and turning at first, only too conscious of my own dreams of heat, war and death, that would leave me drenched in sweat and breathless after my own screams had woken me. However, in the passing of years, during which our friendship deepened, we would more often awake each other and spent the night together in the sitting room.

However, I had never before heard Holmes actually scream; mumble, certainly, and even cry out occasionally, but I was certain that the nightly silence of Baker Street had never been shattered by such a terrified yell from the top of his lungs.

While I fumbled for a match to light my candle with trembling hands, another scream followed the first, and this time, I was certain that it had been in French, although I did not understand the actual words. My mind made the connection only too quickly. While many of us, myself included, had been compelled to learn French during our youth, it was perfectly natural for Holmes to know it – after all, his relatives had been French. And so had Celine.

When I reached his door, hearing the sounds of extreme distress now all too clearly, I hesitated for a moment before turning the knob on the door, fearing that it was locked. It was not.

Holmes was tangled up in the sheets, actually to the point of being unable to move. Still, he writhed continuously, mumbling parts of phrases I could not quite make out. His eyes darted rapidly from side to side behind the lids, his forehead was covered in sweat, his face deathly pale. Usually, I would have tried to calm him without waking him up, to save us both the embarrassment of such a situation, but this was hardly usual.

I hurried to his side, placing my candle on the sidetable, and untangled the sheets. "Holmes! Holmes, listen to me! You are dreaming! Wake up!"

He thrashed out, almost knocking over the candle.

I caught his arms, taking both his hands in mine, although I was restraining rather that comforting him. "Holmes, you are dreaming. Wake up! It is a dream."

He tried to wriggle away, would not wake up, even as I shook his shoulders, but eventually, he ceased to fight against my restraining hands. "_Mycroft, je... on ne peut pas! Aide-moi. _"

"Holmes, it is me, Watson. It is a dream. You can wake up."

"Watson?" With that, his eyes opened, and he stared at me in the dim light of the candle, the horrors of the dreams still lurking in his eyes.

We were both at a loss for words in that moment. Then, Holmes scrambled backwards and away from me, until he was sitting upright, and leaning against the headboard. "Thank you, Watson. I shall be all right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. I'm sorry to have awakened you. Go back to sleep. Your leg is paining you."

"It's you I am worried about. But if it is what you want, I will of course leave."

"Do."

In the morning, I woke to find him standing by my bed, already fully dressed. It was doubtful whether he had attempted to go back to sleep after his nightmare. Black shadows surrounded his eyes, and they were unusually dull.

"Is something wrong, Holmes?" For a man of letters, I fear that the question was badly chosen. Of course something was wrong, it was written all over his stiff posture and expression. After all, I did know perfectly well what it was.

Holmes closed his hand around the bedpost as if searching for something to hold onto. "I have come to talk to you about our return to London."

"Our return? But..."

He turned away from me with ferocity, his voice sharp and cold. "It is not up for discussion, Watson. We are returning, today." Suddenly, his whole figure crumbled as if submitted to an enormous pressure and he slumped into the armchair that furnished the room, still facing away from me. "At least, I will."

I shrugged into my dressing gown as quickly as was possible. "Holmes, you know that I would never abandon you. Of course I will return with you."

"Oh, I would understand. The landscape is quite lovely, and you were enjoying yourself."

"Holmes. I will not leave your side unless you order me to."

"Thank you, Watson." He rose with new-found vigour. "Then I would advise you to pack, if we want to catch our train!"

"Wait! What do we tell Miss Duncan?"

"I leave that in your capable hands, old fellow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

I had known the true motive behind his actions, of course. He could not be expected to remain composed in the presence of the young lady, not when the memories were so fresh in his mind. Therefore, I invented a case that called us back to London to explain our hurried departure. I suspected that Marian Duncan knew that it was not the real reason, but she did not press the matter, nor did she mind that Holmes avoided saying his good-byes. She was a remarkable woman, and it was sad indeed that Holmes could not enjoy her company.

He had walked ahead while I helped with loading our luggage, and we overtook him some way down the road to the station, where he joined me in the carriage. He did not seem much relaxed by the fact that we were leaving the things that had triggered these memories behind, and I was beginning to doubt whether it was a wise decision to return to the busy hustle-bustle of London with all those little conundrums that where brought before Holmes.

Suddenly, a happy thought occurred to me. "I say, Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"You don't really care about where we are going, do you?"

A slight mischievous twinkle entered his eyes. "What are you proposing, Watson?"

"I have had an offer by an old patient of mine. He rents cottages on the Sussex coast, and has long since asked me whether I would like to come down. He would not charge the rent, and you would enjoy the landscape. It is rather fascinating. And don't even think about taking up a case. I won't allow it."

"Well, then it would be best if no one knew I was there."

"An alias, then."

"Oh, no, Watson. It would not do. We are celebrities, you know."

"I assume that is my fault."

"Entirely."  
"A disguise."

"No. You will go down and obtain that cottage. I shall go to Baker Street and inform Mrs Hudson of our whereabouts, and follow after that."

"But how could you possibly find the correct cottage?"

"Leave that to me."

It was agreed, then, that Holmes would disembark at London and follow with the next train. I was to locate my patient, obtain a dwelling, and wait. He had not enlightened me as to how he would find the one cottage among the many along the seashore, merely had he asked me to keep the light in every room brightly lit.

My acquaintance, Mr Leslie Crawford, had supplied me with the address of his agency when last we had met, and it was therefore no great feat to find him. He was a elderly man, ailed by a chronic disease which often drove him into my care, and had left him with a slim build and stooped shoulders. However, his spirits were as sprightly as ever, and he quickly obtained a lonely cottage that he deemed best-suited for a prolonged period of rest. I did not tell him of Holmes, of course, but thankfully, there was no need to do so. The cottage was furnished with two bedrooms, and the store in the nearby village would serve all our needs.

Naturally, Crawford enquired after my celebrated friend, but I informed him that he was engaged in a case in London, and would not be joining me. Crawford expressed some regret at the news, but did not press the matter further.

By the late afternoon, I was left alone. A brief walk through the country had supplied me with a clear image of the vicinity. The pathway that led to the cottage, which miraculously was also entertaining an unoccupied stable, led to a large road winding along the coastline. The cliffs were interrupted by several beaches, with steep paths leading down to them. Had the weather been warm enough, I would have considered swimming, but as it was, I kept on the path and returned to the cottage quickly. I was determined to wait for Sherlock Holmes to appear, for I wanted to know how he had found me, but it seems I had drifted off in front of the fire.

I awoke to the sound of the door being closed, and actually jumped out of my armchair at the sight of my friend stepping into the sitting room. "You picked the lock!"

"Of course. I don't assume you patient supplied you with a second set of keys."

"No, you are quite right. Why would he?"

"Indeed. Well." Holmes fell into the second armchair, throwing his hat and gloves rather carelessly onto the coffee table. "What time is it, my dear fellow?"

"Don't you have your watch with you?"

He waved his hand towards the hallway in a rather haphazardly fashion. "It's somewhere in the luggage."

"Which you have deposited in the hallway."

"Yes. There is also a gigantic basket of food, through the courtesy of Mrs Hudson."

"Splendid. I'm ravenous. What shall I get you?"

"I have already eaten at Baker Street, thank you, Watson."

I did not believe his statement, but let the matter be. Instead, I helped myself to a delicious sandwich and stowed the groceries away in the tiny kitchen of our cottage, while Holmes was unpacking his things, or so it seemed to me by the noise he was making in his bedroom.

When I joined him there some time later, his valise was still packed, if somewhat disordered throughout the search for the dressing gown Holmes was now wearing, sitting on the bed and plucking thoughtfully on his violin without a bow.

"Is everything to your liking, Holmes?"

"Yes, certainly. Why wouldn't it be?" He sounded distracted, and did not further respond to my presence, but picked up the bow and produced several wailing sounds which quickly drove me from the room.

I heard his playing until well into the night, alternating between horrendous screeching and actual tunes, but hardly ever ceasing altogether. His arm would pain him considerably in the morning, but I did not wish to intrude upon him yet again. It had been quite obvious to me that he did not wish to share his nightmares with me, and that he felt shame for what had happened the night before. I heartily hoped that it would not repeat itself.

In the early hours of the morning, however, I heard again his screams, and in that state between sleep and wakefulness, pulled the pillow over my head to muffle the sound. I could not do anything to chase away nightly terrors such as these, without waking him up. And any period without sleep at all was a danger to his sanity. He had little enough sleep already.

I started out of my doze, however, as a crash sounded from the adjoining room. Dressing quickly, I went to investigate.

There was no answer to my knock, but when I called his name, he answered, sounding distressed. "I'm all right, Watson. Would you lay breakfast for us?"

"It is a little early, don't you think?"

"We are up, are we not?" His tone was now brusque, bordering on the irate. He would not be a pleasant companion in the days to come, but I would endeavour to do everything to brighten his mood.

"Yes, of course. Are you coming?"

"Presently."

"Very well."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Our breakfast passed in silence, for which I was rather grateful. I did not know what I would have said, had either of us started a conversation. Holmes looked for the life of me like a ghost.

His face, while never high-coloured, had now lost every aspect of the living, and was stark pale against his dark hair. The latter was as neatly combed as ever, but that, or the immaculate clothing, could do nothing to distract from the obvious fact that he was far from well. Had he not been moving, I would have felt the need to check his pulse to assure myself that he was alive.

Seeing my friend in such a sorry state set my nerves on edge. I probably would have reprimanded him for defying rest, had I not known that he had no control over those nightmares.

While he continued to munch on his toast without enthusiasm, I put down my cup of coffee with a sigh. "Holmes?"

"Hm."

"Do you want me to give you something to help you sleep?"

"I have been sleeping perfectly well."

"So I have noticed."

The corners of his mouth twitched and I thought for a moment that he would smile, but he did not, and neither did the small amusement at my ironic statement reach his eyes. Instead, he rose from the table, the half-eaten piece of toast forgotten.

For some time, he stood silently by the window, his hands folded behind his back, his gaze focussed on the uneventful nature surrounding us.

"It is worth a try, don't you think?"

"Tonight, Watson."

"As you wish. Is you arm much worse?"

"Why would it be?"

"I heard you. You played your violin for several consecutive hours. It should have an effect." I approached his to examine his arm. To my surprise, he allowed me to proceed without protest, even though he had become rather irate at my daily examinations in the course of the last weeks. The bruising and swelling had of course receded completely, but it was evident that he had not helped matters by overexerting the weakened muscles. I told him to stretch his arm and make a fist, which he did without so much as a wince. "It does not hurt?"

"Should it?"

"Why, yes. Holmes?" He was not even looking at me, his gaze was still locked on the landscape outside.

"Yes?"

"Are you even paying attention?"

At that, he looked back at me. "Why? Ow! Watson, what are you doing?" He pulled his arm back, rubbing it with his left hand.

"So it does hurt."

"What have you done? One would have thought I was feeling miserable enough without you adding..." He trailed off, realising that he had spoken rashly, and without guarding himself against betraying his innermost thoughts. An awkward silence settled over us.

I cleared my throat. "I am sorry, Holmes. But you have done this to yourself with your violin playing. I told you not to overdo it. Now, your muscles will ache. I think you were merely too preoccupied to feel it."

"Frankly now, Watson, what would you have me do? I have to keep my mind occupied, you know that. Still, you keep forbidding me one thing after another. Cases, now the violin, I don't have my chemistry set with me..."

"Holmes. Sit down."

"Why?"

"Because you are going to faint, man! Sit down!"

We did not quite make it to the settee before Holmes's body grew slack in my supportive hold. Carefully, I lowered him onto the settee. The piece of furniture had no backrest, but I settled him down in such a way that his upper body and head were resting on the slightly elevated part of it, as it was designed to be used.

I had seen him sway, sweat springing on his face even as he talked. If any man has perfected the art of ignoring the signs of one's body, it was Holmes, although, in the face of the memories that bothered him, I was not surprised.

The fainting spell had been brought on by the lack of sleep and sheer exhaustion, but it did not last long. I had scarcely removed his collar, when his eyes flickered open again and he waved me away.

"It's all right, Watson. Don't look so worried."

"I have every reason to be worried." I sat by his legs, scrutinizing him carefully. He couldn't possibly have paled further, but he made no effort now to conceal how tired he was. "I don't care what you do, but you are not getting up any time soon. I could give you the sleeping draft now – it would probably be for the best."

"Watson."

"Yes?"

"Will it keep away the dreams?"

My stomach clenched at his timid tone. "It should, old fellow."

"Do it, then."

I went to my bedroom to fetch my medical bag and put the white powder into the rest of Holmes's morning tea. "Here you are, my friend." I had used the strongest powder I had, just in case.

Holmes drank it in one gulp and made a face. "Why is it that medicine always tastes vile?"

"I assume it is supposed to stop abuse."

"I see." He yawned, and blinked. "I must say, Watson..." By that time, his voice failed him, and soon his eyes fluttered shut.

I knew well that it was only a temporary solution. He could not come to depend upon my medicines, and nothing could replace a healthy, natural sleep.

I settled down in an armchair where I could watch him, and opened the window to let in the warm, if salty, air. I regretted that I could not go for a walk on a beautiful day as this, but after all, we had come here for Holmes's sake, not for mine.

Recalling the horrible hours after he had been submitted to the torture of the criminals in the previous case, I could not help but notice the irony. Back then, I had assumed that the worst part was over. Who would have thought that the greatest danger to his health would spring from Holmes's own mind?

But then again, I should have known. His own mind was what drove him to the cocaine, to flee from his own thoughts. Why would memories be any different?

Holmes slept soundly for several hours, hardly ever shifting under the blanket I had placed over his frail form. The draft had knocked him out clean, and once again I marvelled at the fact that he permitted me to see him so vulnerable. It would have been all to easy to harm him in such a state – I only hoped that no criminal would ever get the chance to rob my dear friend of his alertness. So far, no one had achieved that.

I busied myself with scribbling in my notebook, although I fear that it was quite nonsensical. I still have that page here, and it is filled with random sketches of the objects that surrounded me in the room, and various snippets from poems and stories I had just read last night. My mind strayed from one subject to another, until a low muttering caught my attention.

"_Celine. Celine! __Qu'est-ce qui se passe?__ Sang. Mycroft! Mycroft, je... __Que fais-tu? Je n'ai rien fait! Laisse-moi tranquille! Lâche-moi!__ Mycroft! Morte... __Elle est morte... __Pourquoi m'as-tu quitté? __M'a trahi... aide-moi._" By that time, he was screaming, tossing and turning."_Mycroft, aide-moi! Non, ne pas__! __Qu'ai-tu fait__? WATSON!_"

The last was yelled at the top of his voice, and I was at his side the very instant he fell back against the headrest, shuddering, still in the clutches of his dreams. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and he was sobbing pitifully.

"Holmes!" I shook him, but it did not help – the effect of the drug was still too strong. If I had know that he would dream nonetheless, I would never have given it to him. "Holmes, I am here. Don't worry. It is a dream. Just a dream. Everything is all right."

Soon, I found myself clutching his hand, awkwardly patting his head as if he were a child. But in a way, in our dreams, we all are. He was still crying, but his screams had subsided to a low, unintelligible murmur that worried me even more.

By the time he finally awoke, we were both even more exhausted than we had been.

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_A/N: BTW, I do not speak French, sadly. I hope I made no major errors in translating, but if a native speaker reads this, I would be glad if she/he spoke up if anything's wrong - thanks! _

_And, a translation of the French part, since I have been requested to put it here, although it is not that important: _

"Celine. Celine! What has happened? Blood. Mycroft! Mycroft, I... What are you doing? I have done nothing! Leave me alone! Let me be! Mycroft! Dead... She is dead... Why have you left me? She had betrayed me... Help me!" (...) "Mycroft, help me! No, don't! What have you done? WATSON!"_  
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_Remember to review!  
_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: THANK YOU everyone who reviewed! I need those reviews to live, I really do ;-) I'm sorry for not replying to everyone personally; I hope this makes up for it. Also, I have added a translation of my French at the bottom of the last chapter, in case you were curious what Holmes did say. _

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**Chapter 9**

During the following days, Holmes avoided my company by every possible means. He went out before I arose in the mornings, taking lengthy strolls along the coastline, thus making certain of returning after sunset.

Once, I did accompany him, and he was amiable enough at first, chatting away about the fact that numerous caves were hollowed out of the cliff beneath us by torrents of water. The idea of those hidden caves would have held great appeal to my boyish imagination, but I doubted if Holmes would have shared my interest. He was merely trying to avoid the one subject we should have talked about: his nightmares.

He had persisted in locking himself in at night, and even though his screams woke me, my banging on his door did nothing to rouse him. Once, I even rushed outside and knocked on the shutters of his window, which did stop the screaming, but he still failed to acknowledge my presence. Each day, Holmes looked more haggard and ghostly, and the holiday which was supposed to improve his condition was obviously worsening it.

For myself, I felt that I carried a certain amount of guilt on the matter – after all, it had been I who persuaded him to visit Miss Duncan's – but he would not let me do anything to lessen that guilt. In fact, he was rather cold with me after the failed attempt with the sleeping draft. I could hardly blame him. Instead of helping him, I had effectively trapped him in his nightmare.

Still, I believed that if we could talk about his memories, they would cease to plague him. I had told him so the following morning at breakfast, but he had silenced me with an iron stare and did not mentioned the subject ever since.

As for our conversation during the walk, it was far from the leisurely talks we used to have in Baker Street. Although it jumped from one subject to another easily enough, as such conversations usually do, I did not fail to notice the strong control Holmes executed over his choice of words. Not once did he allow our dialogue to even approach the vicinity of childhood memories.

When we sat down side by side on a bench overlooking the channel, and I haphazardly mentioned that my brother had taken me over to the Continent and back again when I had been a young boy, Holmes said nothing but rose and stalked away, leaving me behind. It was too late to rectify my mistake.

After that, we hardly exchanged any words at all. I have the greatest patience for Holmes's eccentricities, but there is a limit with me when I see a man ruining his health, both physically and mentally, without even allowing me, his closest friend, to try helping him in any way.

Therefore, I left the cottage one morning before Holmes rose – the night had been horrible for him. As far as I could tell by the frequency and the volume of his screams, his nightmares were getting worse, and in fact I doubted whether he slept at all voluntarily. It rather seemed to me that his exhaustion forced his body to shut down once in a while, but in such manner, he would never get the rest he needed – rather, I could too easily picture him ending up in an insane asylum. However, even if he did not wish me to interfere, I would not let it come that far.

It was to achieve that goal that I travelled to the nearest village that morning, where I obtained a carriage and a horse for the return journey. Both were to stay with us at the cottage. I had some little experience with horses, and the owner assured me that the animal's needs were small. I also purchased several books, some dealing with the phenomenon of nightmares, some simply to offer them to Holmes for occupation – his walks were apparently not enough to distract him.

As I was on my way back to the carriage, a series of unexpected events overtook me. A woman came dashing into the village from the direction of nearest beach, calling for help. The guests of the pub swarmed out and gathered around her, but she was still screaming and, as I could now perceive, crying.

It might have been none of my business, and perhaps inappropriate for me to intervene, but the crowd seemed completely helpless at the sight of a young woman in hysterics. Therefore, I found my way through the group. The people backed away readily when I informed them that I was a doctor.

To my surprise, I found that my old patient, Crawford, was with the woman now, and trying to comfort her. "Watson! Thank heavens!"

"What happened? My dear lady, calm yourself." I took her wrist in mine. Her pulse was racing away, but apart from that, there seemed nothing physically wrong with her. She was merely terrified out of her mind.

"This is Mrs Mary Stewart, the wife of our vicar."

"I see. Mrs Stewart, what has happened?"

She clasped my hand for support. "It's James! On the beach!" And with that, she fainted away into Crawford's arms.

He gave her into the care of a waitress, and we hurried away to the beach. From the distance, it seemed as if no one was there, but as we neared the waterfront, we found the vicar.

He lay prostrate on the wet sand, waves playing around his shoeless feet. His clothes were torn, and I had little doubt what I would find as I bowed down to turn him over and find a pulse. There was none, and the _rigor mortis_ had already set in.

"Good heavens. The poor woman." Crawford ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Luckily, the boy was not with her."

"You have to inform the local authorities, Crawford."

"But he drowned, surely?"

"It looks like it. However, only a postmortem can bring certainty on that point. I shall stay with the corpse. Go ahead!"

"Right. I forget that you have experience with this kind of thing, Dr Watson."

Experience, indeed. As horrid as it seemed for a married man and father to die of such a senseless accident as drowning, I dearly hoped that is was just that. Nothing could keep Sherlock Holmes from investigating when a murder had been committed under his very nose, not even a severe case of mental exhaustion.

The local constable arrived presently, and together we carried the body to the cool cellar of the police station. It had never before served as a morgue, but it was best suited for such use of all the places available. It was quickly agreed that I would conduct the postmortem right on the spot,while the wife was taken to the local doctor, an elderly gentleman, I was told, who suffered frequently from nervous breakdowns and was therefore hardly ever in active practice.

The constable, by the name of Nathaniel O'Neil, was present throughout the examination, which revealed nothing at all peculiar. The water had entered the lungs, which meant that the vicar had indeed drowned, not been killed beforehand and thrown into the sea afterwards. Upon questioning the wife, it was found that he had left their home early in the morning on some errant. She had not been unduly worried, and was merely taking a stroll along the coast when she discovered the body.

There were no marks whatsoever on his person that could not be explained by the fact that the corpse had been thrown about by the waves and crashed into the cliffs several times. I had no doubts that Holmes would have been able to read a lot more than what was apparent to me, but I would not bother him with an accident, as, indeed, I would not have even if it had been murder.

It would have aroused his interest, no doubt, but in face of his health, I could not allow it. It was therefore that I reacted rather rashly to Crawford's question whether I would ask him to come down and look into the matter. "Holmes is working on an important case in London. He cannot drop everything to investigate an accident."

"Of course. I am sorry, Doctor."

"If you should need my help, do not hesitate to call upon me."

"I shall. Enjoy your holiday."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 **

To my surprise, Holmes's bedroom door was still closed and locked when I arrived back at the cottage, and there was no sound from within.

Determined to end our disagreement and find a way to help him, I knocked on the door. "Holmes? Are you awake? I will be preparing breakfast now. I have been in the village, and brought fresh bread."

There was some movement on the other side of the door, and the key turned in the lock, but my friend did not appear.

"I say, Holmes?"

When he did not answer, I pushed open the door carefully. If this had been Baker Street, I would have expected the stale smell of smoke after such a lengthy interval of depression – else, Holmes made a point of not smoking in his bedroom, as he did keep things orderly there. The clutter was usually confined to the sitting room. As it was, this was not Baker Street, and things were far from normal.

However, there was not the faintest scent of smoke. As a matter of fact, the window was thrown wide open behind closed shutters, and Holmes had perched himself on the windowsill, staring at the wood of the same.

"What are you doing?"

"I am sorry, Watson. I should not have been so harsh to you. I know you were trying to help."

"Thank you, Holmes."

"However", he continued without acknowledging my interruption, "I fear that this little problem is beyond our control."

"I trust not. I have bought some books in the village that I want to look into. The subject of nightmares has been widely discussed lately, and I believe there have been some striking successes."

Holmes undid the hatch and opened the shutters, flooding the room in sunlight, including his figure. He was not even dressed, nor shaven, which was a clear indication that it was much worse than when we had started. Also, he had lost more weight, and in Sherlock Holmes, any loss of weight is clearly visible. But worse of all was his face. His eyes, bloodshot and deeply sunken in their holes, were surrounded by black circles, and his skin was so pale that even from the distance I could see the blood pulsating through the artery across his temple.

"Heavens, Holmes, you must eat something."

He dismissed my words with a wave of his hand, but quickly hid his hand again in the bend of his elbow, as if folding his arms across his chest would stop the offending trembling. "We both know that nutrition is not the problem."

"So we do agree that there is a problem."

"It would be foolish to ignore what is evident, Watson. I find myself unable to gather the strength to venture from this room, and indeed I have not been out of the house yesterday, as you believed."

"Your walking stick and your hat were gone..." At that, I spotted both items in the corner of the room. "You deceived me!"

"Yes. I thought I could cope with this alone. I see now that I cannot. I had endeavoured to sleep by day, Watson, but even though I tried, I could not. It is only late at night that I do fall asleep, but it is never for long. I would be remiss not to recognise that, however subconsciously, I am afraid."

"Afraid to sleep?"

"To dream. But now, the memory doesn't disappear, even by day. For years, I had buried it deep in my mind, and, if never forgotten it, never thought of it. However, since these dreams started, I find myself able to recall everything in abhorrent detail, and so far, nothing has served to distract me."

"What is that, Holmes?" Tangled in the bedsheets, I had spotted a small box, and although it was not the customary morocco case, I knew what it contained even before I opened it to reveal the syringe and tiny flasks of solution. "I thought you had finally given it up. You have not used it for years."

I was certain of that fact. Holmes had kept the device, and I myself had known that the habit was dormant, not shaken, but he had never used it. He had told me once that he would never again do so unless he had tried every possible option before that, and as long as I was there, we would always find something to occupy him, even in the phases of bleakest depression and boredom. Even though I was far from distrusting Holmes, I had made a habit out of controlling the solutions, and in fact had discovered that most of the solution had been replaced with saline by his own hand. It would not have surprised me if this phial was the last of the real seven percent solution of cocaine.

Needless to say that I was rather disappointed by the fact that he had gone to such lengths while defying my help.

Holmes took the box out of my hands and closed it. "I understand your sentiments, Watson. You are disappointed."

"Yes!"

"Allow me to finish. You have my word that I have not yet used it. I was merely... contemplating it when you returned. Maybe that fact is indication enough that I am losing my mind."

"Holmes!"

To my horror, he whirled around and threw the box against the wall, where it flew open and crashed to the floor in a mess of broken glass and liquid from the phials and the syringe. "None of that, Watson! It is the truth! I have lost any faculty to think, to deduce, even to observe – my thoughts keep circling, circling around that one point. Senseless, useless, endless."

"Holmes! Calm yourself!"

He flinched at my touch, but allowed me to guide him to his bed, where he lay down voluntarily. "How does one escape from his own mind, Watson? Tell me that, and I shall never again question your medical opinion."

I smiled weakly at his minute quip. "I am afraid I cannot tell you, Holmes. The only advice I have is that you allow me to help, and to cope with it. Ignoring it can't possibly be a solution."

"Well, what do you propose?"

"First of all, we are going to have breakfast together. Then, you will make yourself presentable. After that, we'll see."

At breakfast, I tried to occupy Holmes's attention with rather pointless chatter, but I soon perceived that his mind had strayed far from my words. To my relief, he did not look as haunted as he had on the windowsill.

In fact, he seemed surprisingly alert, and as I reached for the bread, he grasped my wrist and turned my arm over, apparently to examine my shirtsleeve. It was then that I perceived what had caught his interest. A drop of the alcohol I had used to clean myself up after the postmortem had fallen on my sleeve. Now that Holmes brushed over it with his finger, the smell assaulted my nose.

"Where have you been, Watson?"

I sighed. "You know very well what this is. I conducted an autopsy this morning as I was in the village."  
"Why?"

"The vicar drowned. It was an accident, Holmes."

He let me go and honoured me with the shadow of a smile. "Of course it was."

"No cases, Holmes."

"I know. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"You are prepared to take my word for it?"

"Certainly."

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that was quite a delight to observe, even though I had the feeling that he would not let the matter rest that easily. To my surprise, he did not press the subject, not even after he had taken a bath and dressed, joining me in the sitting room after it.

I had been scanning the books I had purchased for anything that could be of help. However, they turned out to be rather more of an analysis than a manual for a cure. While I was certain as to the source of Holmes's dreams, I found it rather interesting that the main way to avoid nightmares was to talk and lessen stress, much as I had suggested anyway.

"What do your books say?" asked Holmes, leaning against the desk I was sitting at.

"Nothing I did not suggest anyway. We need to talk about it, Holmes."

"That is supposed to help? It did not in the first place."

"Yes, I know. Perhaps it is just a question of finally letting go. You have to cease blaming yourself."

"I am not blaming myself, Watson."

"So you say. But I still think that you do. Maybe not for Celine's death, but at the very least for the fact that you blamed her."

He flinched at my mentioning her name, but did not deny my words. "If I am, what am I supposed to do about it? I can hardly order my subconscious to stop."

"That's the problem, is it not?"

He cocked his head and regarded me with genuine interest. "What is?"

I felt a sudden prickling in the back of my neck, as one does when one experiences a flash of genius. This time, I was certain that I had hidden upon the truth of the matter, a feeling of extreme delight washing over me the likes of which one seldom experiences when in the company of Sherlock Holmes. "It is beyond your control. That's what terrifies you. It is your memory, your subconscious, and it eludes everything you set for yourself when you are awake. I am right, am I not?"

"Let us say that for the sake of this conversation, I do agree. What then should I do?"

"Relax."

He gave a cynic bark of laughter. "What do you think I have been trying to do, Doctor?"

"That isn't what I meant. Just sit down for a moment, while I fetch my stick. We are going for a walk."

He was evidently sceptical as to the wisdom of my actions, but, as I was not much surprised to discover, helpless enough in the face of his situation to allow me to proceed.

In my bedroom, I found my largest handkerchief, stuffed it into my pocket and collected my stick, before I returned to the sitting room.

Holmes followed me docilely, curiosity bringing some life back into his tired features. "Where are we going, Watson?"

"Along the path above the cliffs. You will see."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

He trod along at my side with the air of someone who has seen the same walk too often in the past days, and with apparent disinterest in everything around him. For me, it was a thoroughly beautiful midday, with the sun shining warm on my skin and the sea breeze delightfully fresh without being too cold. A seagull cried in the cliffs beneath us, and as soon as we were out of sight of any building, I stopped in my track and turned to Holmes, who looked at me expectantly.

Apparently, his powers of deduction failed him as to my plans, but still, he was as observant as ever. "Is there a reason, Watson, why you brought this ridiculous handkerchief?"

I pulled it out of my pocket – the bulk had no doubt alerted Holmes to its presence – and straightened it out. "There is. First of all, Holmes, I must ask if you trust me."

"I think it is fairly evident that I do." However, I could see him grow tense, and fight the urge to retreat backwards.

"I am going to blindfold you."

"I see."

Holmes did not ask for an explanation, but it was quite evident to me, who knew him for so long a time and so intimately, that he was waiting for one.

"This is about relinquishing control."

"I'm afraid I fail to see how this is to stop the nightmares."

"I don't want them to stop – well, yes, I do, but that is beside the point. We need to get as far as for you to acknowledge that you can do nothing to erase this memory from your mind. You have to accept it before we can work on forgetting it."

"You know, Watson, you keep reminding me of the monk I encountered in my travels to Tibet. He used to tell me that I was human."

"A wise man, then."

Holmes's mouth twitched into a smile. "Indeed."

"May I?"

"Pray, proceed."

I carefully placed the soft cloth across Holmes's eyes and fastened it at the back of his head before stepping away.

He had been blindfolded before, if never with benevolent intentions, but I was familiar with the way he tried to cope with the loss of his sight, which was so vital to him and his methods. He would listen intently, try to use every remaining sense and not little of his intuition to find his way. But that was not what I intended.

I gathered the two pieces of cotton wool out of my watch pocket, where I had stuffed them after taking them out of my medical bag earlier, to avoid their discovery by Holmes. I knew that what I was planning was dangerous for us both, and I feared the effect my plan could have on Holmes's psyche. In my effort to help, I had already made matters worse once, and this time, I would not proceed without Holmes's full consent. "Holmes? I have two balls of cotton wool here." I pressed them into his hand, and he closed his fingers around them, his posture still rigid, his head cocked into the direction of my voice.

"I assume you want me to stuff my ears with them."

"I do. If you don't feel up to it, we can wait with this step until you do. We will take as much time as we need."

"No, Watson. I know what you are trying to do, and I agree. If this method is supposed to work, I have to cut myself off from any possible control I could have about my surroundings. I trust you know what you are doing?"

"I hope so, my friend."

He chuckled softly. "Was that supposed to calm me, old chap? If it was, it did not work."

"Just take hold of my arm, and do it."

Holmes obeyed slowly, and I felt his hand tightening on my arm as soon as he had. I did not need to feel his wrist to know that his pulse was racing away, the almost complete loss of outside stimuli both terrifying and relieving his over-active mind. But I knew that this was not enough. I did not want him to sense nothing, and rip his mind to pieces, as he complained it did in those periods without case. This was about control.

I interlinked my arm with his, and started to move forward, along the path. I walked very carefully, deliberately placing one foot before the other, step by step. Holmes followed somewhat unsteadily, but he made no effort to resist, or to stay still, which was enough to convince me of the enormous trust he placed in me. I was grateful for that fact, for it would probably enable my somewhat unorthodox method to work – after all, much was out of the ordinary where Sherlock Holmes was concerned – even if if it did not make my next step any easier.

Some way down the path, I let go of him, even though I hovered nearby. He stopped walking at once, his thin hands twitching nervously until he buried them in his pockets. "Watson?" His voice was rather low, but considering that he could not hear himself speak, it was not surprising.

I waited for a moment before I approached him again from the other side, and gently turned him around. I found myself murmuring soft words of encouragement despite the fact that he could not hear me. "Never fear, Holmes. Just release the control."

I repeated this procedure multiple times on our way back to the cottage. At first, he seemed rather shaken every time I let go, but with practice came some ease, and by the time we had reached the door, I felt that he had submitted himself to the uncontrollable situation, and trusted me to do the right thing.

Thankfully, there was nothing for him to trip over in the hallway, and I guided him to the sofa of the sitting room, where I indicated him with a slight pressure to his shoulders to sit down. He did so, and to my delight, did not reach out to unravel his position by running his hands over the sofa. Instead, he sat with his hands folded in his lap, calmly, waiting.

A sudden idea struck me, and I fetched his violin, carefully handing him instrument and bow. He frowned slightly, questioningly – after all, who had ever heard of someone playing without being able to hear – but he did lift the instrument up to his chin, and when he released the tones without hearing them, I knew that we had come far, for the tune was calm and joyful.

He played for some minutes, then stopped to take the cotton wool out of his ears and waited for me to remove the blindfold, which I did immediately. He was smiling, if somewhat tiredly. "I must say, Watson, this was quite novel." He rose and placed the violin back in its case. "I assume your goal was achieved."

"Our goal. How do you feel?"

He closed the lid. "Tired."

"So you should."

"Watson."

"Yes." I knew by his tone, his carefully guarded expression, that he was about to say something grave something important, much like on the day he had first told me of Celine. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

"After Celine's death, I believed for some time that I was going mad. It was as severe a case of brain fever as you'd ever seen. My father, naturally, did not bother much, in fact, he committed suicide shortly afterwards, however indirectly – he died of an alcohol overdose, or so I was told. By that time, I was still quite senseless.

"Without the help of my brother, I would have been the third dead in as many months. I will be forever grateful to Mycroft for his support during that time. This morning, when I discovered that my thoughts were trapped in that deathly circle, I feared it would repeat itself. No, I was certain of it. If it had not been for your persistence on my behalf...

"Be that as it may, I would rather not be alone just now."

"Then I shall of course stay at your bedside while you get some rest."

"Thank you, Watson."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

For the first time in almost three weeks, Holmes slept without disturbance. He did dream, but it did not seem particularly unpleasant, in fact, a slight smile played around his lips. After I had watched him throughout the night, I was convinced that he would not fall into the grip of a nightmare again if I left his side, and so I did to go for a walk on my own.

I felt a disturbing throbbing in my old wound, which usually indicated a turn of the weather towards rain, and I was only too glad to stretch myself in the warm morning sun, feeling that we could now leave the past case and its aftermath behind us and start afresh. After another week of true holiday, I was willing to return to London and let Holmes pick up consulting again.

To my surprise, Holmes was up and about by the time I returned – I had not been gone for more than an hour – and pacing the sitting room rather furiously, lost in his thoughts. However, he ceased this display of annoyance mingled with piqued interest at my entrance. "You should have told me more of this business with the drowned man, Watson."

"Why? What happened?"

Holmes let himself fall onto the settee rather dramatically, and tugged his dressing gown tighter around his figure. "I awoke alone, shortly after you had gone, I assume. I was certain that you had gone for a short walk, since you had not yet breakfasted and both your walking stick and hat were missing, and therefore decided to wait for you. I settled down on the settee and must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to forceful banging on the front door. It was the local inspector.

"I have no idea what exactly the imbecile thought, but I assume it was not very flattering as to your conduct, for he was quite determined to break the door down. As you can see, I was able to convince him that it was unnecessary."

I relieved myself of my gloves and hat with some annoyance. "I am sorry, Holmes. I had told Crawford – that is my patient, the one who rents these cottages – that he could call upon me if he needed any help. I had no idea that he would send O'Neil around."

"That is beside the point now, Watson! Look what he discovered on the writing table of the deceased." Holmes waved a slip of paper in front of me with all the energy of a new case at hand.

I eyed him with some resentment, upon which he sat down in an armchair and pinched the back of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "It is impossible to resist, Watson, wouldn't you think?"

I unfolded the note, and read its peculiar content aloud. "'The Riders of Apocalypse are upon thee. Prepare to descend to Hell for thy deed. Thy God has deserted thee.' Good heavens."

"Yes... It certainly is enough to strike fear in a fellow's heart, is it not?"

"Murder, then?"

"At the very least this note could have driven the late vicar to suicide. Still, I do think it more likely to have been murder."

"There were no bruises on his body to suggest violence."

"None at all?"

"None that could not been explained by the fact that he'd been thrown about by the waves, crashed into the cliffs, most likely."

Holmes hugged his knees. "You are aware, Watson, that some of the caves I have told you about are flooded with the rise of the tide?"

"I believe you said as much on our walk. What are you thinking?"

"It is quite obvious, is it not?"

"Why would he voluntarily stay there when he could just as easily have run away?"

"Did you check for drugs?"

"Why, no. There was no reason to."

"Of course." Holmes rose, disappeared to the bedroom and returned with his pipe and a box of matches. "If you had, we wouldn't have needed O'Neil to inform us of the fact that a murder has been committed."

"I could go back and prove your theory."

"That's quite impossible." Holmes lit the pipe, and settled back down, looking more himself than he had in weeks. If it brightened his spirits, I was glad enough to let him clear up this crime, but I was determined to watch him carefully for any signs of exhaustion.

"Why?"

"Because the wife has regained her senses and is rather protective of her late husband's bodily integrity."

"That is ridiculous," said I, preparing our breakfast, while Holmes watched me, smoke curling slowly above his head. "I had to cut him open to examine his lungs at any rate."

"Which is, I believe, what prompted this sudden rigidity."

"Have you committed yourself to take any actions immediately?"

"If I had, would I be sitting here and smoking, Watson?"

"Probably not. I insist that you eat your breakfast now, else, I will inform O'Neil that you are not fit to take up the case." I did not know whether I would have stood up to my threat, for discussing Holmes's state of health in public was something I endeavoured to avoid, and I have no doubt that Holmes was aware of that fact, but he complied without so much as a grimace.

There was, after all, no crime scene to be examined, nor a body to be viewed. How he would advance in this case was beyond me, but even during breakfast, the mysterious note was hardly put out of our sight.

"Will you interview the wife?" I asked eventually, if only to break the silence.

"At present, there is no need to do so."

"Doesn't her finding the body make her the likeliest suspect?"

Holmes shrugged. "I am quite willing to write it off as coincidence. You see, there is no data at all to suggest that she was in any way involved in this, while there are various indications of the fact that we are facing a group of criminals. This note for instance... The Riders of Apocalypse. I trust you recall your New Testament, Watson?"

"I never cared much for the Book of Revelation, Holmes."

"I see. It is wise to research such subjects, Watson, when they become involved in a murder."

"Would you care to explain, then?"

He settled back in his chair, fingers steepled. "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are the harbingers of doom, Watson. They represent conquest, war, famine and death, although in this case, our criminals seem to have ignored that distinction. The horses are of the colours white, red, black and pale-green, respectively, which at present is too little to speculate on it. At any rate, I'm not sure how much of the biblical knowledge is still present in our criminals. They probably sought merely to frighten the vicar, who no doubt was conscious of those facts. However, the number is very suggestive."

"Four men, then?"

"Or women, indeed."

"What does the note tell you about their identity?"

"Precious little. It is written by a man; however, his hands were apparently gloved – no fingerprints whatsoever. I would put him about our age, and he is one of strong character, but that is hardly surprising for someone who commits so cold-blooded a murder."

"Then how will we find him?"

Holmes rose and returned to the settee, stretching out his long legs on its soft cushions. "We have to wait for further developments. I doubt this was the last we hear of our Riders."

"You are going to sit there and wait for another murder to be committed?"

"Watson, there is really nothing else I can do."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

What could otherwise have been a beautiful and relaxing afternoon, lost its innocence to me in the awaiting of another tragedy to happen before our very eyes.

Desperate to take some action, I left Holmes to his own devices – he was dozing on the settee, the exhaustion of the past weeks catching up with him even through the emotional excitement of a new case, and the challenge it presented to his intellect.

I travelled in the carriage to the home of the late vicar to see his wife. It was a charming little home in the proximity of the church, with an immaculately tended front lawn and a tiny back garden with colourful flowerbeds. A wooden veranda surrounded the building.

A servant opened the door for me and told me to wait in the library, a cosy, delightfully furnished room, the walls covered with bookcases. A large French window opened up to the veranda.

I did not have to wait long.

Mrs Stewart was clad in complete mourning, her long, dark hair bound to a stern knot below her thin black veil. The black fabric of her dress swayed around her slim figure, but there was nothing elegant about it. All I could feel were sadness and immense pain. "Dr Watson. May I enquire what is the reason for your visit?"

"I am sorry, Mrs Stewart, to pester you in such a moment. However, I am certain that you have heard by now what was discovered in your husband's study."

"Constable O'Neil informed me that James has been murdered, yes." Her voice was unnaturally cold and devoid of any emotion, and I had no doubt that I was facing a broken woman. "Did the constable send you?"

"No. I am here because my dear friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has been consulted upon the case, and will do everything to clear the matter up."

"I have heard of Mr Holmes. Can he resurrect the dead?"

"I am afraid not."

"Then I must ask you to leave. We have been much disturbed by James's death, and my son is greatly distressed. Susan will show you out."

It was clear that she did not wish me to ask any questions, although I could not perceive a sinister intention behind it. Clearly, the vicar's death had been a great shock to the family. Holmes probably would have insisted, but my delicacy forbade me to do so. Therefore, I left the bereaved home, merely offering my condolences.

Holmes was awake when I returned, lounging leisurely on the settee, his violin resting on his lap. "Well, what did you unravel, Watson?"

"Nothing. However, I am now convinced that you are right. Mrs Stewart seems greatly grieved by her husband's death. She couldn't have anything to do with the crime."

"But she did not answer any questions?"

"No, none. What could possibly be the motive for robbing a family of one of its members?"

"The motive is quite clear, Watson." He held out the note to me which he had apparently been carrying around in his watchpocket. "Revenge for some occurrence in the past. Mrs Stewart would know nothing about it. O'Neil informed me that she was a local."

"And the criminals are not?"

"Certainly. They could hardly live side by side with their victim for years, unnoticed."

"Of course."

"Don't bother yourself, Watson. We will know more before the week is through."

"If It means the death of another person, I am not sure whether I want to know more."

"Well, at least we will be there to catch the criminals, won't we?" He yawned.

"Holmes, I think you should retire early today."

"Are you averse to my company, Watson?" he asked, a slight twinkle in his eyes. He seemed almost well, but I knew that, physically, he was not. Maybe the case had improved his mood and put an end to his depression, but it could not rectify the lack of sleep, or the fact that his arm was still not fully healed.

"By no means. Just, take care, Holmes? We are not as young as we have been."

"A startling observation, Watson. What is it that you are suggesting?"

"Maybe not so many cases as usual... You can't deny that the last case has affected you. Holmes, I know that you are not a machine, even if I might have said some such nonsense once. I can't just repair you every time."

Our gazes locked, and I knew that my words had conjured up the same images in Holmes's mind as they had in mine. The recent case had shown us that maybe, the line of work was too much, too dangerous. Maybe, we were slowing down.

I knew that Inspector Lestrade was thinking of retirement – he had been an inspector of the official force for as long as Holmes had been living in London, which was by now a good thirty years.

But equally, there my imagination failed me. Holmes without a case, without something to occupy his over-active mind... It did not bode well, and it was unimaginable that he should put an end to his cases. Who then would be there to fend for justice? And how would we bear to read of the crimes in the paper, and do nothing about it?

And somehow, I did not want it to end.

"Just forget what I said, Holmes."

"More than happy to." He rose to stow away his violin, and then turned to me with a flourish, our sombre conversation forgotten. "Now, Watson, would you care for a game of chess?"

Playing chess against Sherlock Holmes is no easy feat. It is no exaggeration when I say that he was able to plot the whole game in his head, and always succeeded in having it play out to his liking.

For two men who know each other as intimately as we do it is not unusual to know the pattern of thought of the other, but while Holmes's reasoning was beyond my reach, he followed my tactics easily, and made a game of circumventing each and every one of them. I used to get annoyed at this fact, as I freely admit, but in the course of the years, I had learned to treasure these games as one of the few occasions where I would find Holmes truly relaxed and equally alert. In the Turkish bath, he would usually banish every thought from his mind, giving it a much needed and too infrequent rest.

But in a game of chess, he was in his proper atmosphere, and the game was a sufficient task for his mind to keep him from boredom while not running him to the ground at the same time.

After his return to the living, I had discovered, much to my delight, that he sought my company more intently than in the previous years, not only valuing my presence during his cases, but as a social interaction. It was then that we discovered our common interest in the bath, but also then that we endeavoured to find a companionable pastime that did not involve physical exercise. I remember we tried playing cards, but it was too easy to occupy Holmes's attention for long, aside from the fact that he always called my bluffs. While I enjoyed an occasional game of billiards at my club, Holmes had never joined me there, and in fact had, the one time I asked him to, flatly declined the offer. I could understand his reasons: So illustrious a personage as Sherlock Holmes inadvertently attracted gossip, and while I was questioned about him at first, the club was in fact the only place were I was now no longer associated with my famous friend. Bringing him into this company would no doubt change that fact.

Therefore, we took up chess. It had, in fact, been the suggestion of Mycroft, with whom I chanced to talk about the subject of pastimes during a splendid dinner after the conclusion of a case he had brought our way. The elder of the Holmes brothers had given me his word that Holmes could be beaten in the game, especially due to the fact that his plans were laid out for a specific course. However, I have not succeeded in that goal so far. Once I did win, but Holmes's mischievous grin was enough to tell me that it had been his intention.

"Watson?" Holmes brushed the head of Tower he had just taken from me with his thumb, looking thoughtful.  
"Yes?"

"Your childhood was different, was it not?"

I can not say that I understood what had prompted this enquiry. Clearly, Holmes's past had been a prominent issue those past days, but I had assumed the arrival of this case had quite ended any further discussions upon the subject. Now, I found Holmes's intense interest directed upon my own past, and the memories I had guarded almost as closely as he had his own. Aside from the brief discussion about my brother, that was still muddled by the fact that it was linked to the sense of grief I had experienced, quite aside from my conviction to have distanced myself from my elder brother, we had never talked about it. "In what way?"

His gaze remained fixed on the chess figure, and I saw his jaw work. He was clearly struggling for words, but when they came, they were as clear and precise as ever. "Concerning your relationship to you parents."

While I did not mind to satisfy his curiosity, I did not wish to cause him regret for the fact that my childhood had been a thoroughly happy one, while his had been stained by violence and death. But the silence that had settled over us was too much to bear. "I assume it was, yes."

"Would you care to elaborate, Watson?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, certainly." He put down the figurine, his eyes settling on my face. The grey orbs were steady and intent, their remarkable depth and intelligence unveiled, while his emotional self remained hidden from view.

"Well, I assume it was my father who prompted me to study medicine."

"He was a doctor, then?"

"A veterinarian, yes. My mother had worked as a nurse, but she gave up her work when my brother was born."

"To be there for her child."

"Yes... Holmes, I don't like the direction this conversation is taking."

"Whyever not?"

"I don't see how my memories of a happy childhood are supposed to help you cope with the horrors you experienced!"

"This wasn't supposed to be about me, Watson." He rose, unnaturally calm, not caring about the fact that he upset the chess board, and went to his bedroom. "Good night." He did not slam the door, but the soft click of the lock resounded thousandfold in my innards.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

In the morning, I was awakened by a sharp knocking on my bedroom door. "Get dressed. There have been new developments." It was Holmes, but his tone was icy, and the fact that he had not entered to wake me up as he usually did was enough to communicate to me that he was still angry.

I could not rightly blame him, but I felt unjustly treated nevertheless. After all, it had been concern for his well being that had stilled my tongue, not falsehood. Why he had reacted so harshly was beyond me.

Still, I obeyed his command quietly and soon joined him in the hallway, where he was in conversation with Nathaniel O'Neil. The inspector looked quite shaken. He was very pale, shivering like a leaf in the wind, which was a sight to behold for so sturdy a man. "Whatever has happened?"

Holmes did not turn to look at me. "Another murder, as we expected. The inspector has only just discovered the corpse, and the scene of the crime."

"It is horrid, Doctor Watson. Horrid. The poor man has been incinerated."

"Good God."

"Oh, He had nothing to do with it. The Devil, more likely."

"Why don't you tell me all that has occurred on our ride to the church, O'Neil? I would prefer the scene to be undisturbed."

"Yes, of course, Mr Holmes. I have the carriage waiting outside."

I did not fail to notice that Holmes had omitted the plural that sat so well with us both. He had never been a man to bear grudges for long, but these were no ordinary times. I could well fathom that with the one misunderstood remark I had caused a crack in our long and intimate friendship.

During the drive, O'Neil rattled off the occurrences in a rapid, hurried fashion of someone who would rather forget, oblivious to the tension between us. Holmes sat on his side in the carriage, listening intently, eyes closed, long fingers folded on his lap. I was alone on the other bench, shivering in the cold wind of the ride, and trying to focus on both the case at hand and on a possible means to mend my relationship with Holmes.

"Today being Sunday, I was on my way to church. I'm always to first to go there, Mr Holmes."

Holmes opened his eyes at that. "Why?"

"My wife died two month ago. I usually visit her grave in the morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Inspector."

"It is quite all right, Doctor. Thank you."

"Pray continue, O'Neil."

"Of course, Mr Holmes. I was on my way to the church door. The vicar used to unlock it for me so I could fetch a candle for the grave, and his assistant, Mr Justin, promised to do the same, now that our dear vicar is no longer with us. Anyway, I found the church door locked, and naturally looked around the premises. That's when I saw the flames.

"They were coming out of a small hut at the edge of graveyard, where some tools were stored. Mr Justin also leashed his dog there at night."

"What became of the animal?"

"We found it behind the church. It had been clubbed to death."

"Did you conduct an autopsy?"

"On the dog? What a strange idea. Of course not."

"Ah, well. Do continue."

"Well, I called the fire engines, and by the time they were finished, there was nothing left of the hut but the dog leash. It is, in fact, a strong iron chain, which could be fastened to the dog's collar. On this occasion, it was melted together, but the shackles that had been used to fasten the poor man to the chain were still visible. He could not escape the flames, and the body is horribly distorted, of course, but his identity is beyond doubt. He tried to protect his face, and while everything else is quite burned, the features are still visible. I have hardly ever seen such horror on human features, Mr Holmes."

"Quite so. Can we see the corpse now?"

"I'm afraid not. I had to remove the body – no need to frighten the people unduly. But there is not much to examine anyway. An autopsy is out of the question. There is not enough left for that." O'Neil grimaced. "I do hope you can shed some light on this matter. It is really quite horrible that our quiet village should be shattered by murder, twice, even!"

Holmes straightened. "We will see what can be discovered."

As usually, Holmes was completely transformed upon the scene of a crime. Nothing remained of his more human side that I had learned to know and treasure over the last few years, and weeks especially, even if it was no doubt that less rational part of him that had caused the silence that existed between us now. He was once again Holmes the detective, the ruthless investigator, the sleuth hot upon the scent of a crime.

He prowled the area of scorched earth around the ruins of the hut for some time, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his chin sunk upon his chest. His eyes were directed unwaveringly to the ground. So intense was his investigation, that he once almost bumped into me, had I not side-stepped in time. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was trying his best to ignore my presence completely, even ban it from his sensory information, but maybe that was too egocentric a notion. After all, nothing could distract him from investigating the scene of a crime, and I had seen him walk into furniture in the examination of the ground on previous occasions.

"How was the fire started, Inspector?" I asked, rousing O'Neil out of his gaping admiration of my friend in action.

"We have not given it much thought, to tell the truth. In fact, we didn't investigate at all, so far. The fire was hard to extinguish, and after I had seen that the body was taken to the morgue, I immediately came to you. As you can see, I roped the area off, so as to leave it undisturbed for Mr Holmes here."

"It is perfectly obvious," Sherlock Holmes's sharp voice cut through our conversation. "Petroleum, of course. The smell still lingers."

I should have felt relief at the fact that he answered my question, but his harsh, almost condescending tone turned my blood to ice. "What have you been able to discover?" I asked, in an effort to appease him. I was at a loss as to how to apologise – never before had I seen Holmes sulk, for the lack of a better word. His depressions, as one could think, were nothing like this cold rejection of myself. Not even after my marriage have I seen him in a similar mood.

"The fire engines have destroyed any traces there might have been. There is really nothing left for me to discover. You have done remarkably badly, Inspector."

"What could I have done? If we hadn't extinguished the fire, we would never have discovered the body in the first place!" O'Neil had flushed red, and I could feel with him. He had hardly deserved such criticism.

"You should have autopsied the dog. But it really is of no matter now. I am certain how the crime has been committed, but I hardly have any clue as to who is the criminal. What is the connection between the vicar and this latest victim, aside from the fact that they were associates in work?"

"I gather they were close friends. Mr Justin lived with the vicar's family."

"Did they know each other for long?"

"They came here together a good ten years ago."

"I see." Holmes did not seem at all surprised. "There is nothing more I can do here now."

"Don't you have any clue to the identity of this murderer? I had hoped..."

"None. I would advise you, however, to keep a close eye on any stranger in the proximity of the village."

"But there are several, with the cottages all being occupied at present!"

Holmes just shrugged and walked away, back to the carriage. But before he climbed in, he turned around again. "I almost forgot. Did you find another note?"

"Yes. It was clutched in the dead man's hand. It crumbled to ashes as soon as we touched it."

"I see."

"So you do think this has been the same person or persons who killed the vicar?"

"It was most certainly not the harbingers of the Last Judgement," replied Holmes with a slight mocking quirk of the corners of his thin lips. He was definitely not himself. Else, he would have paid more attention to the crime scene, and even shared more of his deductions with us. "Do you have any suspects, Inspector?"

"Well, there is Mr Oakshot, an old friend of both Mr Justin and the vicar. He was present when we discovered the body. He did seem very disturbed by the deaths, and so was his wife. They live in the house just down the road." O'Neil seemed relieved that he could supply relevant information after all. He had moved closer to Holmes, his posture more relaxed now.

"I see. Did you show him the note?"

"Yes, but he could make nothing of it. He is quite shaken, and, naturally, also afraid. Shall I keep an eye on him?"

"Most definitely, and don't lose track of the vicar's family. I would like to be informed of any developments."  
"As you say, Mr Holmes. Will you speak to the Oakshots?"

"Not yet."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

We travelled back to the cottage in silence, said our goodbyes to Inspector O'Neil and were then left alone in the silence of the sitting room.

The weather had taken a turn for rain, which caused my old wounds to throb. Gloriously dark- coloured clouds heralded a thunderstorm.

I settled into an armchair, determined to get some rest before addressing the subject of Holmes's continuing pouting, even though I was at a loss as to how precisely I was to resolve this problem. I was not sure what exactly had brought it on – originally, I had assumed that Holmes had disliked the fact that I had thought his memories to be so dangerous to his sanity, but now, I was no longer as sure. After all, he had quietly acknowledged the fact himself only some hours before. That an innocent conversation about my childhood could have caused this heavy and painful silence to fall between us was almost unthinkable. After all those adventures we had experienced together, I could not believe that it would be our past that finally drove us from each other company where hundreds of criminals had failed to do so.

Holmes had proceeded to stand by the window and stare out at the gathering clouds and the trees that already swayed in the wind. He stood tense, his hands tightly clutching the pipe he had gathered up from the side table. "Watson?"

I was actually startled at hearing him address me, so much so that I failed to respond, but gaped at him in astonishment.

He smiled, rather apologetically. "Can we just let the subject drop, old friend? I fear a storm is brewing above our heads."

"Literally or figuratively?" I asked, teasing.

"Both."

"You expect yet another murder?"

"Two, in fact. The Four Riders of Apocalypse, remember, Watson. They each represent a plague for humankind."

"A means of death?"

"It doesn't fit, Watson! That is what tears my brain to pieces! It doesn't fit! Why use such a religious role game, such a setting, and not see it through to the end? Neither of the victims died of hunger, or war – only death is adequate. Therefore, my reasoning has to be faulty at some point."

I reached out for the edition of the Bible that still sat on the side table from Holmes's previous consultation of the Book of Revelation. "This is ridiculous. Who has ever seen a green horse?"

"Pale-green", Holmes corrected absentmindedly, "There are actually horses that could be described that way, even if I would rather call them pale-blue than green."

"Yes, but fiery red?"

To my surprise, he whirled around at that, snatching the book from my hands. "What did you say?"

"Fiery red. That's what is says there, is it not?"

"Watson! You are truly invaluable! What would I ever do without you?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

Holmes was completely transformed. His eyes gleamed with excitement and delight, and he actually broke into a bark of laughter at my absolutely clueless expression. "Oh, my dear Watson. Just think. What comes first into you mind when you think of a set of four things?"

"Liver, kidneys, heart and lungs?"

For a moment, Holmes ceased laughing and stared at me, looking as surprised as I was feeling stupid. Then, he resumed chuckling, albeit more quietly. "Ever the doctor, eh, Watson? I was rather thinking of the four elements."

"The elements?"

"Certainly! Water, Fire, Earth and Air! Watson, isn't that suggestive?"

"Well, Mr Steward drowned, and Mr Justin burned – that would be fire and water. But where then is the connection to the Riders of the Apocalypse?"

"The colours, Watson, the colours! Oh, I have been blind! I should have seen that there was no possible way they could kill any of their adversaries by war, or conquest... What could possibly be easier than to associate red with Fire, pale-green with Water, black with Earth, and white with Air?"

"I don't believe the vicar would have agree with you. To mix such ancient ideas with the Christian belief..."

"Nonsense, Watson! If these were religious men we are dealing with, they would not have killed the vicar, or any other human being in the first place."

"I have killed men, Holmes, and so have you, and so does the government in every hanging. I hardly believe that it contradicts faith."

Holmes sank back into his chair, somewhat sobered. "Maybe you are right. At any rate, I have no doubt that we have hit upon the core of the matter. That is the way those criminals think, all we have to do now is try and prevent them to enact the remaining elements."

"But how can we? Holmes, are you really as clueless as to their identity as you led the Inspector to believe?"

"Almost. There is one thing I am certain of: the root of these murders lies somewhere in the past of the victims. They were friends, if you remember, and have known each other for a long time; in fact, they moved here together."

"But certainly Oakshot would know who were the murderers, then?"

"I'd rather not ask him." Holmes had lit his pipe in the meantime, and puffed a pale cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

"You believe he could be involved in the murders?"

"It is a possibility. I have no wish to alert his associates, if it is, in fact, true."

"But if it isn't, he could be the next to die."

"Ah, Watson, there you take us into the realm of speculation."

"Which you dislike?"

He smiled languidly. "Yes. Very much so."

"Why did you want O'Neil to autopsy the dog?"

"Merely to satisfy my curiosity, Watson. I am convinced that both the animal and the unfortunate victim have been drugged in order to commit the deed. Otherwise, the dog would probably have roused the vicar's family. You have observed, of course, that the house of the family is quite close to the church, but situated in such a way that the glow of the flames would have been covered by the church building."

"I see."

We lapsed into companionable silence afterwards. Holmes sat back in his chair, smoking calmly, his eyes closed in thought. I was certain that he was turning over the facts of the case in his mind, even if he refused to discuss it further. Had he wished to lay the matter aside, he would have taken up his violin playing, or resumed the game of chess that had been so harshly interrupted the previous evening.

I had not failed to notice that he had offered no explanation for his conduct, but I was prepared to let the matter slide as long as he did not show any further signs of odd behaviour. I was resolved, however, not to mention either of our childhoods in the near future.

After a while, I noticed the puffs from Holmes's pipe becoming less frequent, and far too regular, and it was no great feat to deduce that he had fallen asleep in his armchair. The tense muscles in his neck had finally relaxed, and his head had sunk against the backrest. He shifted, but did not wake as I took the pipe from his lips ere it dropped into his lap, and snuggled against the soft fabric of the armchair, until his face was half-hidden from view. I left him to his sleep, covering him with a blanket.

After some reading, I retired myself, while the thunderstorm broke loose outside.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

I slept uneasily due to the lightning and the thunder, but when the weather finally calmed, I fell into a deep slumber from which only a persistent tug at my shoulder finally roused me.

It was Holmes, bending over me, already fully dressed and carrying a newspaper. "Watson, wake up, old fellow."

While I was grateful that he knew me well enough not to come anywhere near my injured shoulder, I groaned at the stiffness in said limb, which made it quite impossible to wave him away. I felt worn and stiff, and would have liked nothing better than to curl up under my warm blanket and sleep through the rest of the day. "Is it still raining?"

"No. It stopped several hours ago. I'm sorry, Watson. I do know how much the moist weather bothers you, but it is quite imperative that you get up." His face was grave and his lips were pressed together to a thin, almost invisible line.

"What happened?"

"Read." He dropped the newspaper into my lap and sat down at the far edge of my bed.

The article on which he pointed was a brief account of Mr Justin's death, which revealed hardly anything new to us. "What is it?"

"Last paragraph."

"'As we go to press, we learn that Mr and Mrs Oakshot, dear friends of the deceased, have disappeared without trace. The flight is seen as a sign of guilt by the investigating Inspector, Mr O'Neil, who informs us that all forces are employed in finding the missing couple and bringing them to justice.'"

Holmes snorted. "O'Neil is an imbecile, like the rest of the force. I should have known."

"Holmes! You said you were suspecting the man, too!"

"I was, up until I read this. Watson, which criminal would have the guts to stay after the crime had been committed, and he had such an obvious connection with it, but be as stupid as to fly when he was under the closest possible scrutiny of the force?"

"Abduction, then? The Riders of Apocalypse?"

"Certainly."

"But then we have to act quickly! Maybe we are still able to save them!" I scrambled out of my bed and hurriedly dressed.

Holmes had not moved by the time I was finished. "These criminals act quickly, ruthlessly. I don't think they can be stopped. However, I wager they are going for Earth."

"Why not Air?" I queried, somewhat unnerved by my friend's calm.

"Because Air equals gas, and that could have been down without removing the Oakshots from their home, especially in the gale of last night. But maybe the rain is to our advantage." Holmes rose. "With all the religious nonsense involved in this, I believe I know where we have to search."

My blood grew cold with threat and the horror of the thing. "I believe I know what you're hinting at... This is horrible."

"Yes... The carriage is waiting for us, Watson, so if you'd kindly fetch the shovel I have discovered in the stable, we will be off."

The churchyard was deserted when we drew up to the gate. The area around the burned hut was still roped off, and the rope swayed in the breeze that chilled any man to the bone. I limped after Holmes, who carefully examined the path.

"It is no use, Watson. The rain has soaked this ground, but it has also obliterated any traces. Or else someone has taken great pains to remove them."

"Shouldn't we hurry?"

"It is too late, old fellow. The crime has been committed during the height of the storm, in the middle of the night. They are dead by now." Holmes proceeded towards the iron gate in the low fence that separated the graveyard from the rest of the church premises. Behind, there was an alley of weeping willows. In the dim light and swaying in the wind, it seemed as if they were leaning in on us, beckoning us to enter the realm of Death, the place of no return.

I suppressed a shiver and tried to ban the notion of the crime that – if Holmes was right – had been committed at this very spot only a few hours ago from my mind, but it was increasingly hard not to imagine the occurrences as we passed the graves, finally approaching the far end of the yard, where the recently deceased were buried. There was the grave of O'Neil's wife, adorned with fresh flowers that had been badly battered by the storm, and the final resting place of the remains of both the unfortunate vicar and his assistant.

Beyond that, a little further up the cobble-stone pathway, was a newly overturned pile of earth. I felt myself growing sick with horror.

Holmes wordlessly took the shovel from my cold hands and, after having pulled the modest wooden cross from the ground, began digging.

I found myself incapable of watching, and therefore picked up the cross to examine it while Holmes worked. "Did you see what it says?"

"ROA. I saw."

Soon, Holmes discarded his coat. His breath was a white mist in the morning air as he worked, digging deeper, until he reached a depth of a good five feet. When his shovel hit something other than moist earth, he stopped and looked up at me. His face was pale and covered in sweat, but in his eyes I could see the same ghosts that were no doubt lurking in mine. "There is no coffin."

I felt my stomach turning, and yet I leaned in and watched with horrified fascination as Holmes squinted down and wiped the last of the earth away with his bare hand.

Before us lay the corpses of a man and a woman, entwined in a seemingly loving embrace, their faces calm and relaxed – one could have thought they were sleeping, had it not been for the chilling pallor and stiffness that only comes in death.

Holmes took a step backwards to my side, but both our gazes were still locked on the horrific sight. We had seen many a corpse, many a death during our association, none of them harmless, and most of them of the most violent nature. However, I can't recall ever feeling so disgusted and nauseous as in that moment, not even during my military service, where I had watched my companions being shot and hacked to pieces.

Thankfully, Holmes eventually turned away and walked up the path where he had laid down his coat, which gave me the cue to turn away from the sight as well. "The Oakshots?"

"No doubt." Holmes shrugged into his coat.

"We better inform the Inspector, then, and conduct an autopsy."

"You will find that they were drugged in their sleep, and carried here by all four men. The grave was dug quickly, the ground is soft, and the rain would have made it easier. Then, they arranged the bodies, and refilled the grave, after which they planted the cross they brought with them. It was, without question, the same men."

"The Riders of Apocalypse. ROA."

"Indeed. It is a clever pun on RIP, of course, even if I fail to appreciate the humour. However, compared to Mr Justin's, theirs was a merciful death."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

We found O'Neil in his office in the village, busied with some paperwork. He looked up at our entrance, and his welcoming smile faded the instant he became aware of our grave expressions. "Mr Holmes, what has happened?"

"We found the Oakshots," I answered in Holmes's place, while he sank rather unceremoniously into one of the chairs O'Neil offered us.

The deed was quickly explained, and the inspector left us for a moment to give several hurried orders to the only constable who was stationed in the tiny village before he returned to us. "Now, what is this with these Riders? You don't assume it could be their initials?"

Holmes smiled patiently. "It is not very likely. ROA supplies us with only three letters. I am certain that there are four persons involved."

"What should I do, then?"

"Is there any other associate of the vicar's that came to this village with him?"

"None, Mr Holmes."

"There only remains his wife, then."

"As the criminal?"

"The victim, O'Neil!" Holmes rose and paced through the room, once, twice, before he stopped by the door and picked up his hat. "I will see her now. I would advise you to position a man at her doorstep for safekeeping. There is a slim chance that we might be able to apprehend the criminals in the deed."

"Of course, Mr Holmes."

We left for the vicar's cottage immediately, without even stopping at our own. Holmes confided to me that he thought it unlikely that the fourth, and, as he believed, final murder would be committed in broad daylight, and hoped that we would have time to prepare until nightfall, but he wouldn't tell me anything of his plans.

The servant I had already met bade us enter and directed us into a room on the first floor. In a calm and even voice, she informed us that her mistress had fallen ill, and she would enquire whether she would see us.

Holmes and I were left alone in the sparsely furnished room, that bore clear signs of the presence of a young child in the household – the vicar's son, I assumed. In a wicker chair, there sat a small teddy bear, and below the windowsill, I discovered a small wooden boat that likes of which I always wished to own as a boy, but never could afford.

Holmes dumped his gloves in his upturned hat and deposited it on the small sidetable, but he had apparently followed my gaze. "I used to own one of those when I was a child."

I cringed as we passed into this unstable terrain once again, but found myself compelled to answer anyway. "I tried to save my money for one, but it was never enough. Did you play with it?"

Holmes smiled – he must have sensed how awkward this conversation was for me. It was difficult to imagine Holmes as a boy. With all his eccentricities which, no doubt, could be called childish, I still failed to see him playing with toys and just enjoying himself.

"No, not very often. I preferred the chemistry set Mycroft gave me for my ninth birthday."

At that, we both chuckled, and then lapsed into silence as we waited.

When footsteps finally approached, Holmes tensed and beckoned me to ready the revolver I had been carrying around with me after we had first heard of the fact that the vicar had been murdered.

"A man's," he whispered, and we kept side by side, facing the door.

I don't remember what my over-active imagination had conjured up, but when the handle turned and the door opened to reveal the gentleman in question, I was surprised to say the least. I assume I had suspected some savage, someone one would easily associate with murder.

The newcomer, however, was immaculately dressed, even his silver cuff-links sparkled with an intensity that almost rivalled Holmes's own love for cleanliness in dress. "Gentleman, I see you are surprised. My name is Ralf McCraine. I'm a good friend of the vicar, and I only now heard of his unfortunate end. I came here immediately to care for Mary – she is too ill to see you, I am afraid."

"This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and I am Dr John Watson. We are here to investigate the murder of Mr Steward, Mr Justin and Mr and Mrs Oakshot."

We shook hands, and I could not shake the impression I had formed of Mr McCraine as a huge bear. He was strongly built, and his dark, if short, beard covered most of his chin. Its edges almost disappeared into the equally dark hairline, but his eyes were bright and sparkling, and he was smiling most amiably. His voice clearly indicated his Scottish origin, even if his accent was not pronounced enough to endanger his understandability.

"Pray, be seated, gentleman. I have heard of you, Mr Holmes."

"My friend's stories have made my name rather widely known, Mr McCraine. Especially among the criminal classes."

The Scotsman chuckled. "I see. Well, please ask me your questions. I hope to be able to answer them."

"How long have you known the vicar, Mr McCraine?"

"Oh, for a good twenty years now! Me and me brothers knew him well, but I'm afraid we hardly saw each other for several years. But we never quite lost contact."

"I see. And you can't think of anyone who would wish Mr Steward any harm, can you?"

"No one, Mr Holmes. I just said to me brother Arthur yesterday, I said: We should go and see old Steward some time. He had a wonderful estate up in Scotland, had James. Sadly, his health did not agree with the air up there. Arthur would have travelled with me when we heard the news, but our younger brothers, twins, you see, are not feeling very well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said I.

"Ah, it is nothing, Doctor, compared to what happened to poor James. I don't wish to appear rude, Gentleman, but I should be getting back to Mary."

We rose, and Holmes picked up his hat. "Just one last question, Mr McCraine: Did you know Mrs Mary Stewart before you came here?"

"We met once, at James's wedding. Good day to you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. I'm glad to be of help."

Holmes, rather to my horror, rudely ignored the hand that was offered to him and left without another word. I murmured some apologetic words to our host and hurried after him.

He sat on the driver's bench of the carriage when I stepped out, and clicked his tongue to set the horses in motion as soon as I had climbed up beside him. "That was incredibly rude, Holmes."

He snarled. "I'm disgusted by this man, Watson! I hate being lied to my face, but this man tops it all. So cruel, cunning and audacious a murderer I have hardly ever encountered!"

"Murderer!"

"Yes, certainly." Holmes dragged in his breath through his slightly parted lips as if to calm his nerves. "I must say, it does Inspector O'Neil some credit of having been right on that aspect: ROA are the initials of our criminals, but of their Christian names. Ralf, Arthur, and the twins, whom I assumed to be called somewhere along the line of Owen and Oisin."

"Good heavens."

"They are consumed by cold vengeance, Watson. Of course there is money involved."

"But if the McCraines are our murderers, shouldn't we inform the inspector immediately and have them arrested before they can do any harm to Mrs Stewart?"

"On what grounds, Watson? No judge would accept this construct as evidence before a court."

"What are we to do then? Goodness gracious, he could be killing her this very moment!"

"Nonsense, Watson. They will lie low until the night comes. Ralf McCraine is no fool. He knows I suspect him."

"You hardly attempted to conceal it."

"I did not wish to. Maybe it will tempt him to do something unplanned, to slip. Then we have them, Watson. Now, I will send a wire to Scotland, and after that, I shall go for a walk. I need time to myself to think, Watson, and maybe I will come up with a way to trap these criminals before they are able to complete their revenge."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

By the time we had returned to the cottage, the floodgates of heaven had opened once again and were drowning the landscape in a horrendous amount of water.

Still, Holmes was determined to go for a walk, and we had a rather ferocious argument on the subject, until he agreed to wearing an additional coat and taking an umbrella with him. In the hallway, however, he stopped and dug the small notebook out of my coat pocket, ripped a piece of paper out of it, and scribbled something on it for some time, before he folded it neatly and replaced both the note and the notebook in my pocket again.

All the while, I had stood frozen in surprise, and he smiled at my expression. "I shan't be gone long, Watson. Two hours at the most. If I am not back by that time, I want you to wait for the answering telegram to my enquiry, and then read the note. I need you to carry out the instructions to the letter, do you understand?"

"Perfectly. Do you expect to be delayed?"

"There is a possibility. To the letter, Watson."

"Yes, certainly."

"Good. I shall see you in two hours, then." He pulled down the rim of his hat to protect his eyes against the rain and the wind, and readied the umbrella before he opened the door.

Moist air and spray assaulted my already chilled and aching wounds, and I recoiled. "Take care, Holmes!"

He waved to me with the umbrella, but walked into the gale without hesitation.

I pushed the door shut and limped back into the sitting room in a rather undignified manner, where I slumped down upon the settee and pulled a blanket over me. For a while, the pain drowned out all other sensations. It is seldom that I experience so ferocious an attack, and there is nothing but the warm benefit of a Turkish bath that eases such pains. Had we been in London, I would have suggested a visit to the bath to Holmes as I first felt the onset of rain, but here, in the Sussex countryside and in the middle of a criminal investigation, there was neither time nor place for pastimes.

In those early days of my living in London, I had experienced this amount of pain almost continuously, albeit drowned in the medication I was forced to swallow to function. As years progressed, the pain lessened but for these attacks. I had at first sought to hide them from Holmes, for it would have presented an awkward situation for both of us. However, one does not hide things from Sherlock Holmes, and I was grateful that our friendship had progressed so quickly that Holmes had shown nothing but worry when I stumbled and crashed on our stairs shortly before the commencement of the adventure I entitled "The Sign of the Four". Luckily for both of us, Holmes equally enjoyed the relaxing Turkish bath, and he would often suggest a visit out of his own volition. I have no doubt that he was able to read my body language as well as he read the occupation of a client by a mere glance. Only once did he ever mention the bath, after I had gone on my own accord, and without informing him.

But on this occasion, how could I bother Holmes with my old pains when his mind was so clearly troubled, not to speak of the fact that he was trying to solve a series of crimes, or rather, find a way to convict the criminals? I was therefore content to curl into the warmth of the blanket, and rose only to accept the telegram as it was delivered – as per Holmes's orders – to our doorstep. I deposited it on the side table, along with Holmes's note, and sought some relaxation in a hot bath in the small tub in the cottage's kitchen.

I have no doubt that I wouldn't have been able to relax, had I a notion of what was happening to my dear friend that very moment. As these events, as shocking as they were, are indeed vital to the course of the adventure, Holmes and I see fit to include a brief narration of them in this chronicle, even though I was not personally present. Holmes has often remarked to me that he was quite able to write up his cases on his own account, if he had the time, and we therefore agree that it is with him the duty lies to narrate the following. This is, without editing, the exact narration as I have received it from Holmes's own pen.

I left the cottage with the full intention of setting my mind at ease with physical exercise, in order to divine a means to apprehend the McCraines. I had no doubt to their guilt; however, as I had stated before in Watson's presence, no court would convict the four men on my statement alone, however respected and, indeed, important my word may be.

It is often easier to find the criminal than to weave a net strong enough to hold him. Many a murderer has escaped the gallows for the lack of a waterproof case against him. With such a cruel string of murders at hand, I had no wish to let them slip out of my hold.

Maybe it has been foolish, as Watson later assured me, to let Ralph McCraine see my suspicion, but at that time, it seemed the only possible course of action. There was a possibility that the brothers would confess to the murders of their own volition by the completion of their revenge, but I was not willing to put my faith into such a notion. Furthermore, allowing them to progress so far equalled the acceptance of the death of Mrs Stewart, and, if my reasoning was correct, her son. I could not advise Inspector O'Neil to take them in protective custody – if I did so, I would only force the McCraines into hiding. After waiting a good ten years, I had no doubt that they would wait another year or two until the excitement had died down to complete their feat.

I paused briefly on the highest point of the cliff path, clearing my mind. So far, the assessment of facts had not revealed any possible way to lay a trap. There was, of course, the possibility of keeping a close watch over Mrs Stewart, but a mere observation of the cottage would not suffice to prevent the murder. After all, Ralph McCraine was already safely installed inside the household, where he was apparently beyond suspicion. I lacked data on that respect, but I assumed that Mrs Stewart was indeed ill from grief, and unable to recognise the men her husband had no doubt told her of.

Whatever the exact occurrence of the events in Scotland was, I was certain that neither Stewart nor Oakshot had kept them a secret from their respective wives, or had not had the chance to do so. It was only natural for the criminals, therefore, to extend their revenge to include the unfortunate families.

Had there been time, I would have contemplated on the nature of the wrong the McCraines had experienced by the hand of the three murdered friends, but at present, I could not afford the energy to do so. The answering telegram I expected from Scotland would sufficiently answer that question.

My abilities were better occupied in the effort to prevent the fourth murder. It is, however, a well-known fact amongst specialists that the prevention of a crime is infinitely more difficult than the solution of one. Even if one is informed of the identity of the murderer, and the likeliest progression of the deed, one faces numerous difficulties that stand in the way of a smooth apprehension of the criminal. For one, there is the victim, who is unlikely to recognise the danger if it presents itself in the identity of a dear friend, more so in times of grief. Furthermore, it makes the admittance of the investigator into the household unlikely.

Secondly, there is the restraint of the law placed upon every individual, and followed docilely by the official force. One can't intrude into a household unwanted, nor is it right or proper to apprehend an individual on mere suspicion. Sadly, I had no facts to support my theory. I hoped that the answering telegram would supply me with some of those facts, however insufficient they would be to convict the four men.

Truth be told, I found myself rather easily distracted from the case at hand. It would be foolish to deny that my mind has been much tried of late, but I could not let this small inconvenience get into the way of the prevention of a very serious and cruel crime. However, the slippery path along the cliffs and the pouring rain resurrected unwanted, undesirable images, and as I stood on the cliff, staring out over the black sea, I found myself thinking of Celine instead of the unfortunate woman I was trying to save. For years, the memory had haunted me, and I had tried to avoid it on all costs. After her death, it was quite some time before I found myself able to play the violin again, and even now, in those periods of boredom Watson so rightfully dreads, I feel myself burdened by the recollection. To say that sharing the memory had lessened the pain would have been an exaggeration, and indeed reminiscent of the romanticism that tinges Watson's narratives. I would be remiss, however, not to notice that for the first time, I did not shy away from the recollection. Watson's little experiment at treating me had shown me at least one thing: it was better to follow the train of thought, and memory, through to the end rather than push it away, however unwelcome it was. The effort of ridding myself from the past had only sufficed to anchor it in my mind.

It was therefore that I calmly waited for the events to play out in my memory before I resumed my walk, banning all sensory information from my awareness. Strangely enough, it is a feat that does not approach perfection over the course of years. Instead, I must confess that I have come to appreciate my surroundings as more than mere suppliants of facts. However, with so important a task at hand, it is no great difficulty to focus one's mind.

The lack of evidence was much trying. While I knew with absolute certainty that the McCraines were guilty, I had no facts to convince a jury. The criminals, while leaving me with ample information as to how the crime had played out, had been very careful to obliterate any traces of their personality. Apprehending them during the deed was out of the question. A search of the vicar's cottage would maybe reveal the device with which they planned to ventilate the deathly gas into the room where they wished to kill the wife and child – I had no doubt that it was the very same room Watson and I had been shown into during our visit earlier –, but such a search was impossible without a warrant. Even in London, a search warrant was notoriously slow to obtain, and in the Sussex Downs, I had no doubt that it would take even longer. Mrs Stewart could not afford to wait till morning.

I was therefore forced to place my hope in one of two possibilities.

One, the pressure of my persecution would cause a slip, however minor. There was, however, the great disadvantage that, at the current state of events and the near complete preparation of the murder, such a slip would go unnoticed. Also, there were three actors in this drama that had not yet made their appearance, and as much as I hated to admit it, it was to my disadvantage. I could have endeavoured to trace the remaining McCraine brothers, but even the proof of their presence in the neighbourhood would not have stopped the progression of the crime.

Two, a confession. If not volunteered after the completion of their vengeance, which I was trying to avoid, it could only be obtained through adequate pressure in a direct confrontation. Such a meeting, however, would require the presence of Inspector O'Neil, as well as enough information to execute said pressure. Maybe the telegram would suffice, but even then, I was faced with the possibility of the three other brothers slipping away while Ralph McCraine was arrested. That event had to be avoided on all costs, or the crime would be executed without hindrance.

If I would encounter all four brothers in the same spot, it would be possible to apprehend them all; however, the three remaining brothers were sure to stay far away from the cottage, thoroughly in accordance with the little tale Ralph McCraine had presented us with. Even if I discovered their hideout, which was likely to be one of the caves in the cliffs, presumably one that remained dry even in high tide, it was not very probable that I would encounter any but one of the brothers there. They had been equally clever and efficient so far, and would not allow themselves so foolish a slip.

Even so, I doubted that Inspector O'Neil, while thoroughly relying on my deductive ability, could be convinced to participate in such a wild goose chase. Neither Watson nor I were in the condition to face three or four able-bodied, strong men alone.

As it was, the presence of another on the path ahead of me only registered very late in my preoccupied mind. Quite naturally, I froze in my tracks, trying to filter the relevant information out of the flood of sensory input I had not allowed myself to register at all just moments ago.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

The rain was distracting, obscuring the vision and leaving blurry patterns where in sunlight there would have been clear outlines. The rush of the waves below drowned out every other sound, but even so, I was certain that the ambush I had feared when I left the cottage had quite neatly closed around me. There were two men ahead and one behind, without doubt the remaining McCraine brothers. Their number was a disadvantage, but after all, this was the slip I had hoped for.

I had no doubt whatsoever that they had, for all their previous cleverness, failed to see that I had endeavoured to tempt them into such a reckless course of action.

I would have wished to be closer to the cottage, but it would do either way. A short run would take me back into the proximity of Watson's aid. All I had to achieve now was to incapacitate one of the three men, preferably the elder, Arthur. I hoped that the twins would only realise the threat once it was too late, and I would have the chance to apprehend the three of them without the knowledge of their brother, who could then be rightfully arrested and charged, if not with the murders, at least with the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. I had no doubt that the pressure would result in a confession of the past deeds out of bravado. After all, they had taken great pains to make their revenge known to the victims, if in a somewhat twisted way.

I had, however, miscalculated the distance of the man behind me.

While I have the fullest confidence in my mental capacity, I have learnt that during a fight, it is quite essential to let one's instincts guide oneself, more so in a fight for life or death. In a sportive fight, there is always the time to think and calculate. In such a precarious situation as I found myself in now, there was none.

I had not yet fully spun around when the blow crashed against my lower back. Involuntarily, I doubled over, and for a second, my vision was clouded by the pain of the blow. But I could not allow my assassin to strike once again, and the next blow connected fiercely with the stick of the umbrella I had been carrying. Watson has once remarked that I am an expert in single stick, and it is indeed quite beneficial to me to be accosted in such a way, even if my choice of weapon was somewhat unorthodox. I will not bore the reader with a detailed description of each attack and counterattack. Sufficient to say that I was soon sorely tried in standing up against three attackers, who were determined to drive me towards the edge of the cliff. While each of them was a mediocre fighter at best, their combined force was quickly sapping my energy. It would be easy to claim that I lost the fight due to the continuing stiffness in my recently injured arm; however, the plain fact is that the wet stone surface eventually caused me to lose my footing. In a fair, gentlemanly fight, the attacker would have waited for his opponent to regain his balance; however, my attackers did not show such consideration. An unblocked blow against my lower cranium ended the struggle.

One would think that during my dangerous career, I would have grown accustomed to the attacks on my life, or rather, the results of them. However, it seems to be among those things that never cease to be novel.

There was a tingling sensation at the back of my head as I resurfaced to consciousness, and I was struggling to reconstruct the events when the pain returned with full force. It is no exaggeration to admit that being endowed with a mind like mine is as much of a curse as a benefit. As it is with the sensation of pain, it primarily demands the attention of one's mind, and when said mind is a schooled as mine, the sensation is clearly and thoroughly felt. My travels to the East, however, as well as the discipline in which I have trained myself, have endowed me with certain tactics which serve to ban all unwanted sensory information to the back of one's consciousness. Unfortunately, in doing so, I became aware of various unwelcome facts.

Firstly, I was tightly bound on wrists and ankles. The rope was unpleasant to the touch, raw and scratchy, already tearing at my skin. I assumed it to be of cheap quality, probably the style of which was used one ships – strong, but without regard for softness. This, however, entailed my inability to escape them. I felt an unpleasant numbness; not enough blood was reaching my fingertips. This problem had to be resolved later. At present, I could not spare the energy to struggle.

Secondly, I could not see. A dark, soft cloth was wound around my head, or more precisely, my eyes. It did not cover my nose, but was bound tight enough as to not to allow any light to penetrate the blindfold. Above my left eye, the fabric grazed a tender spot, apparently another area where I had received a blow that had either gone unnoticed in the fight, or been received after I had lost consciousness.

My captors, who without doubt where the criminals I had been seeking to trap, had been cautious enough to also ensure that I was safely gagged. I could not allow myself to think too intently of the foul smelling cloth pressing on my tongue and the back of my throat – else I would have activated the gag reflex and most likely would have choked. I did take a carefully controlled breath through my nose and continued in cataloguing my sensations.

It was no easy feat not to think of the pain, or of the unpleasant fact that I was faced with three of four opponents that had already killed four people, if not more, to reach their goal. There was no doubt in my mind that, if they deemed it necessary, they would not hesitate for an instant to add another victim to their list. I felt safe to assume that my mere being Sherlock Holmes, and being present in the neighbourhood at the time of their crime, rendered me into a more than likely candidate.

I have always scowled Watson's romanticism, but on occasion, I have been forced to admit that certain literary ways of expression serve adequately to describe real situations. Thus I feel that the pain, however thoroughly I had blocked the actual sensation, did generate a kind of haze over my sensory perception as well as my thought process, and only now permitted me to perceive the slow, rhythmic sound of waves rolling over a smooth area of the coast, where the water was very shallow for some length.

I was on a beach, then, and the soft, giving sand under my bound feet confirmed that deduction. It also alerted me to the fact that I was missing my boots, which could, even securely bound, have served as an effective weapon, and that I was still exposed to the pouring rain. At least, so I reasoned, not a great deal of time could have passed.

The sand made a familiar crunching sound, softened by wetness, as several people approached. I assumed them to be my captors, but there was of course no fact to support that theory. Robbed of my sight, I could not identify them. I was not familiar with there pattern of footfalls, not had I had time to judge their weight or height during the previous scuffle as to determine their identity by the length and heaviness of their strides. The gag was taken from my mouth.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes."

I did not know what alerted him to the fact that I was awake, however, I felt that it was thoroughly unnecessary to pretend otherwise. "You are Arthur McCraine, are you not?"

McCraine chuckled, a sound I wish never to hear again. The dissonance of it was abhorrent, and the lack of feeling or humanity whatsoever turned my stomach in the remembrance of what fate had befallen the unfortunate vicar and his friends. "Quite clever, are ye?" He forced the gag back into my mouth, and I forced myself to remain calm. At present, I lacked the data and the strength to do anything more.

"At any rate, I believe it is rather time that we get on with it. Pick him up!"

I felt myself hoisted to my feet by two sets of strong arms – the twins, no doubt – while someone slackened the bonds at my ankles. I assumed, however, I could not be certain, that it was Arthur McCraine. There was a slight possibility that Ralph had joined them, but I thought it unlikely. I do not claim to be a perfect judge of human nature – that is a field I leave to friend Watson – but Ralf McCraine struck me as a personage who preferred to have the dirty work done by someone else. Besides, leaving the vicar's household now would probably hamper their plans, or even rouse serious suspicions on part of the constable positioned at the front door. That may have been wishful thinking on my part, to which I'm not very prone, but I have to say in my defence that in that moment, the deeper art of deductive reasoning was quite beyond me.

Being upright aggravated the injury I had sustained, and I was flooded with an intense sense of vertigo, which was accompanied by the nauseating pain that is so typical to head injuries.

My captors, naturally, had no intention of waiting until I had regained my balance. Instead, I was pulled forward, forced to either stumble along on numb and tingling feet or be dragged behind. Naturally, I tried to keep up with their too rapid pace, likely with some idea of attempting to escape as soon as I had regained a stable position. However, any such effort was severely hampered when I, much to the amusement of my captors, stumbled over the rock and would have fallen, had it not been for the hands closed tightly around my upper arms.

"Well, Mr Holmes, can you deduce where we are going?"

I must confess, I had tried to banish any thought of the fate that lay in wait for me from my mind and to concentrate my efforts on a speedy escape – I could not allow myself to be absent for too long, if I wanted to prevent the final crime of the Riders of Apocalypse. However, my mind supplied the answer all too quickly. For once, I was glad that the gag muffled my gasp. The tide caves. I should not have been surprised. Had I not just a few days ago discussed this very caves with Watson, very conscious of the fact that such locations very conductive to criminal activities?

Cold water washed over my feet where I stood frozen, knowing all to well that my behaviour signalled nothing but fear to the McCraines, which would only serve to amuse their twisted minds. However, it takes a greater man than I to stand above the common fear, and I would be a fool not to recognise the danger that was so very real upon me. There was no chance I would ever be found inside such a cave, which could, by definition, only be found by the one who already knew it was there. While the gag and the breaking waves against the rocks would drown all screams, the tide would set a quick end to my life before any search could possibly venture close enough.

It was likely that I would loose my bearings entirely once we reached the cave, more so than now. I could see several beaches quite clearly in my mind. None were situated in such a way that an escape towards the inland would have been overly difficult, even blindfolded. If I was to escape, it was now or never.

I feigned unconsciousness, and, when the twins tried to readjust their grip on my arms, broke away and rushed into the direction we had come from. The bonds at my ankles severely hampered my movements, and while my auditory sensations should have aided me to determine my direction, they were unfortunately drowned by the hellish pounding in my head. Maybe it were these factors, in addition to my somewhat shortened breath due to the gag, that caused me to trip and fall somewhere along the beach. I knew it was vital to continue on, but on occasions as these, even I feel my reason is clouded by sheer panic, which only worsens the more one tries to ignore it.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: HI! I am still here! And I bring a new update for you! :D I hope you won't kill me after this. Just remember, then there won't be any updates anymore ;)_

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**Chapter 20**

I had not yet regained an upright position when my captors caught up with me. This time, I did not allow myself to be overtaken so quickly. I have trained myself in various techniques of hand-to-hand combat, and while Watson deemed it wise that I ceased training after the unfortunate incidents during our last case, such muscle memory is not easily forgotten.

While Watson retains a certain military instinct which makes him quite invaluable as an asset in a fight, I have endeavoured to amass a variety of movements so that my defences and attacks would remain unpredictable. Naturally, my range of choices was limited due to my bonds; however, I managed to fight off my captors for quite some time. It is, at any rate, a sad fact that I had to agree with Watson in his judgement of my physical condition at that time. I was neither as young as I had been, nor had the exertions over the last weeks passed me without effect. It was for those reasons that I found myself tiring quickly, and, consequently, my struggling against the two able-bodied twins was rendered futile up to the point that I found myself being pinned to the ground, panting, and without any strength to even twist away from their hold.

The gag obfuscated the task of breathing immensely, and while my heart raced away, I could no longer breathe. Every ounce of my body still was prepared to flee, however, in my mind, I had quite comprehended that is was but wishful thinking. I was tired, incapacitated, injured, and panicking, none of which was conductive to staging an escape, not as long as I was facing three men who were nothing short of experts in the art of killing their fellow humans.

"I thought you'd be wiser than that, Mr Holmes," Arthur McCraine whispered much too close to my ear for comfort. I barely heard his actual words – the blood was rushing in my ears – but the mere feeling of his breath against my skin send a chill down my back that fuelled my panic. Desperately, in vain, I tried to calm my racing thoughts, tried to apply reason where only madness and instinct would have been natural.

Much to my horror, all my efforts were shattered as McCraine closed his hand around my throat, just below the larynx, and pressed upwards. I could not breathe, and all reason abandoned me. I have a dim recollection of struggling vainly, feebly, but the hand only pressed down farther, and I began to see bright lights dancing behind the blindfold, behind closed eyelids. If I were to die in that way, so be it. By comparison to what I had seen during my long career, or in this case in particular, being choked seemed a merciful death. At the very least, it would make the sight of my corpse less shocking for dear Watson, who was safely shut away in the cottage, oblivious to the fate that was befalling me. Naturally, he would grieve, but I had taken every precaution for this eventuality. The note I had handed him included everything there remained to be said between us, and if my last hours were less than peaceful, I had high hopes that, at least, his would be.

It barely registered in my addled brain that the hand lifted away far too early, far too soon to have put an end to my existence on this world. Sweet air rushed back into my lungs, or rather, it wheezed back, for the gag was still firmly in place.

"Now, we can't have your running away from us again..."

I had frozen, both from fear and exhaustion, but I was still able to feel the chilling tingling of the vile breath that brushed my cheek as Arthur McCraine opened the blindfold and pulled it away, his face hovering over mine so close that I could see the back of his throat as he resumed speaking.

"I want you to watch this."

Someone hoisted me up from behind until I was almost sitting, my fingers barely grazing the trampled sand below me.

The sight of a knife in Arthur McCraine's hand could do nothing to shock me. I was expecting to die, and as a matter of fact, I was surprised how easily I accepted that eventuality. If Watson once described me as an automaton, I had my doubts on occasion if I ever have, or even wanted to reach that ultimate goal of any reasoner. Watson would probably inform you, dear reader, that he has made a grave error of judgement upon attributing that title to my humble self, since the friendship we share certainly contradicts any such notion. On the other hand, Watson has always placed too little recognition on his part of our relationship. My only regret was that I have never informed him of his error.

McCraine grazed my exposed ankle with his blade, drawing a little blood as I let my eyelids flutter close. "You are going to watch this! Owen, hold down his thigh!"

The second twin moved into my view, his hand pressing down my thigh onto the wet sand. I felt no joy for the fact that I had correctly deduced his name – what joy was there, really, in knowing things, in discoveries one could not share with others?

My expectations were all proven wrong, however, as Arthur McCraine lay down the knife, and took hold of my ankle, or rather, above and below it. Nothing could have prepared my for the pain that exploded there as he gave my foot a forceful twist to the side, resulting in an ugly sound like that of broken bone. It was a white, piercing pain, so forceful that for a moment, my vision went black. I'm certain that in my shock, I even failed to cry out.

I had twisted my ankle before, as a child, as I had stepped into a rabbit hole. Even know, I could hear Mycroft's voice echoing in my mind - "Are you all right, Sherlock? Can you stand?" - which was disturbing enough for my sanity, but I knew this was different. Even now, as the pain had faded, I knew that this was more serious than a twisted ankle.

I have seen quite some things and injuries during my career, both on others and myself, but never have I seen such a quick and glorious swelling. McCraine had scarcely taken away his hands, or his brother released my thigh when my ankle was already twice its previous size. There was no bruise, yet, but the angle was odd. It is the curse of an analytic mind such as mine that it was quite obvious to me that walking, or even running, was out of the question. My foot would not support any weight in this state, and soon, I was trembling from shock.

"You are not going to run from us again, Holmes. This was unnecessary, since you are going to die, anyway, but you insisted." With an evil smirk, Arthur McCraine replaced the blindfold, robbing me of my eyesight and any chance to be able to discover my concrete position. As it was, it wouldn't have been any use to me.

I was dragged upright, and even this small movement jarred my ankle and I succumbed to a rather undignified sob as the pain returned, piercing like small daggers of lightning. One might say that this description is rather florid for myself, but as a logician, one must strive to be accurate, and this is as accurate as our language manages to describe such pain.

Naturally, I had lifted my foot off the ground, soft as it was, but I was forced to put it down as the arms that held me pulled me forward. My ankle gave way immediately, and, again, I would have fallen if not for the fierce grasps around my arms. There was no way I could walk, not even if I concentrated all my fading willpower on the task that contradicted my very instincts. Not surprisingly, my captors took little notice of that fact.

Instead, they pulled me along, dragging me behind them as I lost my footing entirely. Needless to say that it did little good to my injury. I only noticed dimly that the rain had stopped, and it took me even longer to realise that it was due to the fact that we had arrived at the tide cave. The steps of my captors echoed from the walls, and the occasional splashing sound reminded me all to clearly of the fact that this cave would soon be flooded entirely, and no force of nature could stop it.

When I was finally released, which resulted in my rather unceremoniously crashing to the ground, and without free hands to catch myself very nearly breaking my nose, I felt both relief and fear. However, I was not allowed to regain my breath. I was flipped to my back, and the cry of pain I failed to hold back evicted a resonating laughter from one of my captors – I assumed it to be Arthur McCraine. While the only thing I could perceive was the piercing pain that slowly faded into a thoroughly disturbing, sharp throbbing, the bonds on my wrists were released only to be fastened again moments later. When I regained my senses, I felt the stony and wet surface of what I assumed to be a natural pillar pressing into my back, and my legs where again securely bound, albeit in the vicinity of the knees rather than the ankles.

Without preparation, I was punched in the face with such force that my head crashed back against the stone, sending wave after wave of nausea through my much tried body. All the while, I

struggled to come to my senses, to work at an escape, but my mind refused its services. All my training, and all I have learned in the East, is based on the skill of separating one's mind from the body in order to gain complete enlightenment and control over both. I fear, however, that such a task is one that requires a lifetime to accomplish, and it is in moments as this that I am most clearly reminded of the fact that I have not reached that goal.

"Mr Holmes, listen to me!" Arthur McCraine tugged at the scarf that held the evil smelling cloth inside my mouth, very nearly choking me. He ignored the pathetic coughs he had provoked. "You are tied to a pillar that rises up to the ceiling; there is no escape, not even as the water rises. No one knows where you are. No one will come to rescue you. When the tide is at its highest, you will certainly die. My advice to you, sir, is making it easier for yourself. I am told drowning is no unpleasant death. Surrender yourself to the waves. Don't struggle, and death will come to you swiftly, mercifully. No one will come for you. It lies in your hands now whether you want to die in agony. There is no chance you will be rescued. None at all. You will die here. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

As there steps became more distant, and all I could hear was the faint tickling of water and the blood rushing in my ears, I experienced another surge of panic, even more powerful as the first. All conscious thought was wiped from my mind, and replaced by sheer, hellish fear as I had never experienced it before. My recollection is still blurred, but I am quite certain that I screamed, regardless of the fact that the gag muffled any sound, and struggled, tearing at the bonds that would not yield, but only tightened further. At some time, when my body was too exhausted, my mind – for the lack of a better way to describe it – went haywire. The scenes of my captivity replayed endlessly in my mind, and again and again, I could hear McCraine's words – the last words I would ever hear. _No one knows where you are. No one will come to rescue you. _And to my horror, I could but agree. Even though I had told Watson of the caves, he had no reason to search them for me. He had no reason to search at all until more than two hours since my departure had passed. I had lost track of the time completely, but I had my doubts that it was already that late. I was not familiar with the tide table of this area of the coast; however, there was a great possibility that the tide would reach its highest even before those two hours had passed. Even if not, the cave could become inaccessible long before that time. _No one knows where you are. No one will come to rescue you. _It was true. I would die. _No one will rescue you. _I would die, and all I could do was to wait for the waves to come. The water would rise around me, and at some point, I would be submerged. I would attempt to stay at the surface, even as my clothes were soaked with water, dragging me downwards, but even then, I would hold my breath, until the reflex of breathing would become too strong, and I would swallow water. It would fill my lungs, and I would cough, in an effort to clean them, until I had no strength left. _You will die. No one will rescue you. _

I wanted to silence the voice in my mind, in my memory; I wanted the pain to cease. I had no desire to die, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing at all. I would die. The only decision that remained for me to make was whether I would put up a struggle. My body postponed the decision for me as I was engulfed by the blessed darkness of unconsciousness.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

_Watson_

My bath, as much needed as it was, was rather rudely interrupted by a ferocious banging at our front door.

I was quite surprised, for Holmes had taken a key with him, and had no reason whatsoever to knock. Hastily, I donned my dressing gown and hurried to open the door. The rain had lessened somewhat, and nigh on two hours since Holmes's departure had passed. I would have expected him to be punctual to the minute at any rate – he usually was, if he had left instructions what should be done in case he should be delayed. At other times, he was quite capable of turning two hours into two days during which I received no word of him.

The unexpected visitor was a much dishevelled Inspector O'Neil, who hastily stepped out of the icy downpour into our hallway, where he shook himself like a dog, sending the spray into every direction. "I'm terribly sorry to burst in like this, Doctor, but I need to talk to Mr Holmes immediately."

"Mr Holmes has gone for a walk, but he should be back shortly. Here, let me take your coat, Inspector. You are most welcome to wait for him."

"A walk! In this gale?" The inspector shrugged out of his coat and dumped it on the floor beside the hatstand. "There is really no time for this. The constable I have sent to watch the vicar's cottage has had occasion to enter the dwelling. Both Mrs Stewart and her son are dead."

"Good heavens!" Holmes had not anticipated any move before nightfall, but as I cast my eyes out of the windows, I found that the horrendous weather had quite served to darken the day considerably, up to the point where the trees across the lawn were barely distinguishable.

"I need any information Mr Holmes may have for me if we want to catch those murderers before they are out of the country!"

I picked up the telegram and the note Holmes had left for me and glanced at my watch. He still had five minutes to return in time. I would not disobey his command in order to comfort a nervous and somewhat impatient inspector. Usually, I would have offered the man a seat and tried to engage him in conversation until Holmes was back and ready to see him. Since the inspector was dripping wet, it seemed like an unwise course of action. Instead, I poured us both a drink and handed one to O'Neil, leaning back against the backrest of the sofa myself.

My leg was starting to cramp up again, already radiating the tension I had tried to lessen with the hot bath. As a matter of fact, I had no wish to hear the particulars of the murder, for there was no doubt whatsoever that it was as gruesome as the previous ones. Poisonous gas could produce the ugliest of corpses. Still, I felt compelled to ask: "How was it done, Inspector?"

"Gas, apparently. Carbon monoxide, it seems. You see, my constable is somewhat of a motorcar enthusiast. He identified the signs. We also found the remainders of the device that was used to generate the gas. However, any clues to the identity of the murderer has been obliterated."

"What became of Mr McCraine? He was visiting the household as Holmes and I were there this afternoon."

"Indeed? Well, he seems to have disappeared, then." The inspector drank his brandy in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with a small hiccup. "I assume he is our man."

"Holmes thought so. But he argues that we are facing a clan of four brothers, the initials of their Christian names being R, A and twice O."

O'Neil frowned, apparently somewhat calmed by now. At least, he had straightened both his shoulders and his shirt, and sat down his glass with the due carefulness. "I see. Well, then it should not be too difficult to start a search for them. I might have to contact my colleagues in the area."

"Inspector, I understand your anxiety to get to work quickly; however, I believe we should wait for Holmes's return. He received this telegram, and gave instructions not to open it ere he returned." That was not the literal truth, but I felt disquieted by the fact that it was past the time Holmes had promised to return. "He should be here any minute now."

"Very well, Doctor. You won't mind if I pour myself a second glass of brandy?"

"No, of course not." Seemingly casually, I strolled to the window, even though my leg protested, and peered out. There was no sign of Holmes anywhere on the path leading up to the cottage, nor in the area beside it. An uncomfortable feeling settled down in my stomach and tightened my throat, as if I had swallowed something that was too big for it. As it is with memories, they often come unasked for, and with a ferocity we seldom expect. I had no cause to be reminded of the Reichenbach Falls, but the image would not be banned from my mind. Therefore, I turned around and unfolded the note Holmes had left for me.

Even though he had scribbled it quickly, and with one foot out of the door, so to speak, his writing was as immaculate as ever. There was no sign of anxiety in the swirls of his letters, and in the elegant drawing of his signature, not like the note he had left for me to find at the Falls. Still, I found that my hand shook as I started to read.

_My dear Watson,_

_I hope you will never have occasion to read these words, as it means that I have not managed to return to the cottage in time. I departed with the knowledge that this was a possibility, and I assure you, no blame lies with you. Now, I hope that the final murder has not yet been committed, but it is just possible that my actions have, in turn, hastened theirs. Whatever the circumstances, I ask you to open the telegram now._

With fingers that suddenly felt cold and stiff, I tore open the telegram. Inspector O'Neil must have noticed my expression – I suddenly felt so very cold, and I was sure that all blood must have drained from my face – for he joined my by the window and tried to read over my shoulder.

The telegram was short and to the point, as those things usually are.

_Arthur, Ralph, Owen and Oisín McCraine imprisoned for theft in the manor house of a certain James Stewart. Sentenced to manual labour, released this month. Claimed at trial theft had been planned in presence of the owner to enact insurance swindle. Stewart and lodgers Justin and Oakshot called police, no doubts raised as to their innocence. Signed, Wilkins, Edinburgh._

With some trepidation, I handed the telegram to the inspector and picked up Holmes's letter for the second time.

_You will find, my dear Watson, that all of our men, criminals and victims, were involved in a common crime at some time during their past in Scotland. Somehow, the three victims managed to escape the law. The McCraines, on the other hand, have only recently been released from prison, and are in the progress of taking their revenge. I assume a large sum of money has been the issue, for it supplies us with the reason why the wives should know about it. It is for that knowledge that they are included amongst the victims. This telegram, which confirms their names, should be enough for Inspector O'Neil to warrant a search for the McCraines. Wilkins of the Edinburgh Yard will supply him with their images, should the need arise._

_Now, Watson, I fear I have to address a subject which is painful to both of us, but most of all, I fear, to you. I have previously said that, since you are reading these lines, I have been detained. This, however, is only concealing the reality. With the deepest regret I must inform you that, should I not return, I have most likely been waylaid and overcome by all or some of the McCraines, and have, by the time you read these lines, in all probability met my untimely end. As we have had occasion to discuss this matter before, I assure you that this is no hoax on my part, nor have I enacted my demise for whatever purpose. I know this will give great pain to you, my dear friend, and I wish with all my heart I could have spared you that pain. I am sorry, my dear fellow._

_Please, give my fondest regards to Mrs Hudson, and to my brother. The newest draft of my will remains, as usually, in his hands._

_Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

I believe that, upon finishing to read, I must have fainted for the second time in my life, for when my vision cleared, I found myself on the ground, my shirt collar partly undone. Inspector O'Neil knelt by my side, apparently reading the note. Even as I felt the heat springing to my face, I jumped to my feet, took the note from him and headed for my room to get properly dressed.

The inspector called after me with some surprise, but I had not the time to spare to bother to answer. I could not, would not allow myself to be too late, yet again. Not even in face of the fact that I had absolutely no idea where to look.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22 **

_Holmes_

The water was rising quickly, that much my abused mind could still realise. I had no means to measure the time, but it was all too clear that not much was left, not when I calculated the force with which the tide tugged at my already soaked clothes and crashed against my injured ankle, for which even the slightest current was too much.

The water in itself was a danger, not for the fact that I would certainly drown, but for its low temperature. I was long since shivering furiously, uncontrollably, and it was a mere question of time before I did fully lose my mind.

Or maybe I already had – I could not be sure any more. In my mind, my memory and the perception of the present merged into one another, and at times, I was no longer sure which was which.

At times, I imagined I was still on the beach, senseless due to the agony of my injuries, and all I felt was just a nightmare. Sometimes, I was certain I was back in the cottage, with Watson, and suffering from an infection. And often, the cold water was the piercing, icy spray rising up from the abyss into which the Falls plunged, fed by the endless stream of melt water from the mountains.

I do not know what grounded me in the present. Maybe it was the sensation – no, the knowledge – that this was not Reichenbach, that I could not be lying there, dying, delirious – not even a mind as great as mine could conjure up the events of so many years of living.

But still, I failed to capture the actual occurrences around me. I was deafened by the horrendous booming of the waves against the walls of the large cave, and my sensation was nothing I could rely on, not when every limb was already numb with pain and cold, and stiff from the cramped position in which I sat on the ground.

I did, however, feel it when the water swept into my mouth. A salty taste saturated the gag, and I chocked, losing myself in the task of coughing and breathing for too long a time. The next wave brought more water, and my every instinct told me, screamed at me to close my mouth and hold my breath, but I could not – the scarf prevented it.

And in the back of my mind was that voice again, growing so loud, and louder, until it could well have been a person, shouting into my ear. _No one knows where you are. No one will come to rescue you. No one will come. No one knows. You will die. Make it easier for yourself. Surrender. _

I wanted the voice to go away, I wanted to run from it, hide, get Watson and his army pistol to defend myself against the intrusion into my mind, my sanity.

In my panic, I very nearly forgot to breathe altogether, and when the next wave brought more water than I could easily handle, and soaked the blindfold, even rising above my nose, I was too surprised to even cough at first. In that moment, I was certain that I would be dead in a matter of seconds. I had not fought, and it would be so quick, so easy a death. But something within me, something that took the shape of good old Watson before my closed eyelids, that something told me to fight, to struggle, that Watson was on his way, that I had to give him the time to find me, as much time as I could, that I was afraid of death, that I did not want it to end...

I don't know how I found the energy, or how I managed to put weight on my abused ankle – maybe I was so numb with cold I was no longer aware of the pain. At any rate, I scrambled to my feet, my back still pressed against the stone pillar. Out of the water.

My breath caught, and I forced myself to breathe around the sudden tightening of my chest – the cave was so cold, so very cold, and I was still shivering, tearing at the ropes that held my wrists until they were sure to be torn bloody, and there was endless pain, radiating from my ankle in sharp, lightning jabs.

It became easier as the water had reached my chest. It carried my weight, and I could almost allow myself to float, but not quite, or I would have slipped and submerged. I would not be able to swim, not with my hands bound and my legs largely incapacitated. I would have about five minutes to wait now, before the water reached my mouth again, and I would drown. _No one will come._ No one had. No one would. I could just as well let myself slip down, dive below the surface now, and never rise again. It was so confounded cold, and the water was warm – a comfort.

My trembling legs buckled on their own, from sheer exhaustion. My body had no energy left to shiver, or to fight, to stand, even. Just barely enough to die.

_Watson_

I raced up the path, hoping that I was going in the direction Holmes had taken. He had shown no signs of wishing to walk around the cottage when he left, and straight ahead, there only remained the cliff path. I knew that I would be unable to do anything for him should he have been thrown over the cliff. The water, currents and hidden cliffs below where merciless, and if his body ever reached the shore, it would be unrecognisable. But I could not allow myself to indulge in such thoughts, even if they were a familiar pattern, one I had endlessly contemplated so many years ago.

It was irony indeed that Holmes, who had once faked his death at the Falls, should now meet his end in the combination of an abyss and water.

The inspector wheezed at my side – he was certainly in better physical condition that his outward appearance suggested. "Doctor – where are we going?"

In truth, I did not yet know. The heavy rain had obliterated any footsteps or signs of a struggle, and eventually, I stopped, just as we reached the point were the path parted into two, one of which led on along the cliff, while the other led to a beach.

"You can't go down there, Dr Watson." The inspector wiped his service revolver clean. "It is no use to continue in that fashion. We should return to town and start a search for those criminals."

"Why can't I go to the beach?" I queried, absent-mindedly. I was examining the area, the rocks, the path, the patches of green beside it, for any clue, any sign that Holmes had been there. Of course, I had no such luck.

"Because the tide is rising! Soon, the beach will be flooded."

"Good heavens! The tidal caves!" Suddenly, I recalled all too clearly the moment I had last stood at this crossroad, on Holmes's side, who calmly explained the existence of the caves to me. What better place for a murder than a pirate's cave?

I quickly discarded my hat, boots and overcoat. "I am sure Holmes is in one of the tide caves. I need you, Inspector, to go for the carriage and get it back here – we will have need of it."

"Of course. Dr Watson! Be careful!"

I did not spun around as he called after me, but headed onwards, battling my own fears. I could not bear the possibility of Holmes's death. I would not have survived it the first time, had Mary not been by my side. I would not survive it a second time, alone, not when I knew with absolute certainty that, this time, it was real.

I had avoided large, powerful masses of water since the incident at the Reichenbach Falls. It was not that I held any fear of them, but the memories were so powerful that a fierce current on close range was enough to send me into a shocked stupor. However, I could not allow that to happen now, not when Holmes's life was at stake.

The beach was already partly flooded, and I was almost swimming by the time I reached to edge of the cliff where it closed around the beach. The water was too high. If Holmes was unconscious, or bound, he was dead already.

But no – I could not allow myself to believe that, or I would never have the courage. And courage was very much needed as I proceeded along the cliffs, keeping close to the wall and fighting the current at, at times, was trying to beat me to a pulp against the sharp rocks, and at others, trying to drag me out into the open sea.

I found the cave with my searching hand first, the entrance big enough, but invisible from the beach. It was a desperate hope to think that I had found the right one, or that I was even correct in my theory. Of course, I had no time for mistakes.

Until today, I do not know whether the muffled human screams I heard at that moment were reality, or the figment of my imagination, my hopes, but it urged me onwards into the dimly lit cave. Thankfully, it was not carved too deeply into the mountain, but it narrowed towards the end, and in that barely illuminated corner I perceived a stone pillar, and the figure of a man slumped against it, struggling against the current that had very nearly reached his mouth.

"Holmes!"

And in that moment, he submerged, dragged off his feet by the retreating current.

Needless to say that the sight spurred me into multiplying my efforts to reach him, more so as I perceived that he did not resurface. It was a desperate fight against the current and eddies, and to me, it seemed as if an eternity had passed before I finally reached the pillar, half swimming, half walking. My old wounds screamed their protests against the exertion, but I could hardly consider this small inconvenience while my friend was drowning.

Blindly, I reached below the dark depths of the water until my frantic searching hand brushed the soaked fabric of a shirt, and I pulled upwards.

Holmes was utterly limp, but more heavy than I had suspected – apparently because his layers of clothing were very much soaked, and my grip nearly slipped as I tried to readjust my footing, but it has often been said that fear endows a person with unbeknownst strength. I found it to be true as I succeeded in dragging Holmes back to his feet, his head just barely above the water. To my relief, he had come to his senses and coughed around the soaked gag that had been wrenched into his mouth to get rid of the seawater he had swallowed. All the while, I kept my fist closed around his shirt-front, should he slip again, while I myself was forced to tread water by now. With my free hand I fumbled to loosen the gag, which was no easy task. The slipshod knot had become the harder to open for its wetness, and still I succeeded in undoing it before Holmes had even been able to drag in a wheezing breath.

"Come now, old fellow! Steady on. I'll get you out of here," I said as he peered up at me, still wheezing, pain, hope and desperation flashing through the deep, grey abyss of his eyes. "I have you, Holmes." My teeth were chattering in the cold water, and it was about time that we left this fearful place, but of course, Holmes had not only been gagged.

"Watson." His voice was barely audible against the rush of the water that echoed on the cave walls. "My hands."

"Of course. I'll have to let you go. Stay upright!" I rounded the pillar and dived, quickly finding Holmes hands. They were bound together in the most uncomfortable and unhealthy angle, effectively cutting off his circulation. Thankfully, the criminals had not considered using iron shackles as it had been the case with the unfortunate Mr Justin. The bonds gave way to my probing fingers soon enough, and I was just in time to catch Holmes as he threatened to pitch forward. Suddenly, I was very conscious of the fact that had only registered subconsciously – he was not shivering, that is to say, not any more.

I grasped his shoulder harshly to bring him back into awareness – he was slipping from consciousness too quickly, I had to act fast now. "Holmes!"

With a yelp of pain, his head snapped back up.

"You'll have to swim, my friend. Here, take hold of my shoulders, and don't let go."

I have only a dim recollection of our return to the safe ground of the upper area of the beach, and Holmes was clearly not in the condition at that time to be able to supply my memory. But I do recall feeling trapped in some sort of nightmare, where one tries desperately to reach something, but it stays forever far away – for this is as precise as I can describe my feelings as I struggled to get out of the cave, and then back to the beach.

While we were still swimming, Holmes held his own with remarkable strength that could only be attributed to panic; however, as I could once more stand upright, his iron grip at my shoulder lessened and he collapsed into the shallow water beside me.

I instantly pulled him up again, taking nearly all of his weight. If the inspector was correct, we could not stay, but had to reach the top of the cliff.

It was no easy task, and we very nearly tumbled off the small path at one point, but when we reached the turn in the path, there was the Inspector waiting for us.

However incompetent Holmes may think him to be, he had had the sense to do as I had asked, and had in addition brought two towels along with him. I did not hesitate in wrapping both around Holmes, who, although very nearly unconscious, had thankfully resumed shivering. Upon reaching safe ground, he had also immediately vomited a rather large amount of water, and was now a picture of utter misery.

I shrugged into my dry overcoat, and bundled Holmes into the carriage – there was enough time to examine him yet once we had reached a warmer spot.

"Doctor, I shall have to go to the village to start the search for our men."

I nodded to the inspector as deposited my boots and hat beside Holmes on the bench. "I am very grateful for your help, Inspector. I trust you'll keep us informed as to developments?"

"Is he all right, Doctor?"

I nodded sharply. "He will be."


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Thank you for the feedback, everyone! :D I'm glad you like the story so much! _

_Onwards! (I hope someone catches the Shakespeare quote here...)_

* * *

**Chapter 23**

To my great relief, the fire I had lit before my hasty departure from the cottage was still burning cheerily.

Naturally, we were both drawn to the warmth, or rather, I assisted Holmes towards the settee before leaving the room to change and to fetch Holmes's dressing gown. He clearly needed to change out of his soaked clothes, and it was quite evident that he was in no state to manage that feat on his own.

When I returned, he still lay on the settee just as I had left him, clutching the edges of the towels wrapped around his upper body and shivering furiously, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare on the crackling flames.

"Holmes. Holmes, old fellow, I need you to get rid of those soaked clothes."

His gaze very slowly focussed on my face. "Watson?"

"Yes. Yes, I am here. Everything will be all right. Just take off those clothes, my friend."

"My ankle..."

For the first time, I paid any heed to the fact that Holmes own boots had gone missing. To my shock, I discovered that his ankle was grossly swollen and strangely tilted to the side, while the area around it was turning a deep shade of purple. "I'll see to that soon... Never fear. Come now, let me help you."

Without boring my readers with every detail of my medical examination, it should be said that the process was painstaking and slow, as much for myself as for my good friend. The effects of the exposure to the cold water, combined with the numerous other injuries he had sustained, left him in a pitiable state where his mind would refuse to focus on anything for quite some time.

While this may sound quite irrelevant in the eyes of people who do not, like me, know Holmes intimately, I was very conscious of the fact that to him, this was probably more terrifying than any physical injury. Holmes cared nothing for his body; however, even he could not fail to observe the influence it exerted over his mind. Such injuries such as those he had sustained inevitably had a profound effect. It had to be terrifying to a man like Holmes to be robbed of the abilities he possessed, even though there had not been a direct attack on those abilities. At that time, I had not known what haunted his mind and memory as he lay shivering under my reassuring touch, his eyes tightly closed against the world, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Once – as I was trying to bandage his raw wrists, he almost jerked away from me, but calmed himself quickly enough for me to continue unhindered. However, he had yet to utter a word aside from his mumbling shortly after our arrival in the cottage.

It was not until he was tucked into his bed, his ankle, tightly bandaged, resting elevated on a cushion, the soft fabric of his dressing gown too loose around his thin, almost fragile frame, that he opened his eyes for more than the vacant stare of earlier.

The past few weeks, and even the case itself, had done him little good, and once he was sufficiently recovered, I would suggest a holiday in some remote place on the continent, preferably France, where no clients or cases would vex us.

"Watson." Holmes's grey eyes, pale and watery, had focussed steadily on my face, and his hand pressed mine with more strength than I would have thought him capable of at the moment.

"How do you feel, my friend? Better, I hope?"

A soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, before Holmes ceased the movement with a small wince. The corners of his mouth were still sore from the gag, and I had already applied an ointment to fasten the process of healing. "Less cold and wet."

"Well, I'm certainly glad you are still in the mood for joking."

"Oh, Watson. Good old Watson, you worry too much."

"You very nearly died, Holmes!"

For a moment, his eyelids flickered shut. "It has not escaped my notice."

"I refuse to lead this conversation yet again, Holmes. I think we have been through it on more than a sufficient number of occasions. You will be forced to stay off your feet for a good month, Holmes, and I will hear no discussion about it. Nor will I give in to your restlessness and allow you to shorten that period. No matter how little regard you have for my opinion, medical or otherwise, I do believe it was a mistake to take up this case, as I have, in fact, said from the first. After that horrendous affair of the Announced Crime, we should have gone on a long holiday."

To my utter surprise, Holmes was smiling as I trailed off into silence. "I thought we were on holiday, Watson."

"Before this case came along. We should have gone away, far away, where your name is not as well known."

"Indeed... My dear fellow, when I took up my profession, crime already was my continuous companion. It is not merely a part of my trade, but of my life, it seems. When we met, you welcomed the excitement."

Recognising the first signs of his black moods in the melancholic tone of Holmes's voice, I choose my answer very carefully. "That was a long time ago, my friend."

Holmes shook his head slowly, and continued as if he hadn't heard me. "I am afraid that if one is endowed with powers like mine, even without the special training I have dedicated to optimizing those powers, it is quite impossible to participate in the world we have created and refrain from trying, at the very least, to prevent, or avenge, those crimes and injustices which present themselves to me daily. It is quite beside the question whether I seek them out. I do, but even if I put an end to my practice now, and retired to some remote place where my name is, indeed, not known, I could not stand by while six people are cruelly murdered, or even if one person was. The days where I sought the excitement, and the fame, are past, I quite agree. If my life has been a struggle against the boredom of everyday existence, I pride myself to say that I have just as avidly endeavoured to free the world of the evils of our society."

"My dear Holmes!" I cried, deeply touched by his speech. "You are indeed a benefactor of the race."

He extracted his hand from mine, and clasped his long fingers behind his head. "My brother Mycroft once remarked, many years ago, that I am bound to fail in the task that I have taken upon myself. I can almost hear him now. Back then, I could not accept that injustice should, indeed, be an universal constant, but now, his words ring true."

"Old friend..."

"No, no, no, Watson, there is nothing for it! 't is true. And pity 't is '_t is true__.__"_

"But surely we have helped in the apprehension of another group of criminals."

"And what use is it to the victims, Watson, the family we were trying to save? Two families and one man inevitably, cruelly, taken from life for something as trivial as money!" He winced as, in his agitation, he had jarred his ankle with a sudden movement, but even as his hand closed around his thigh as if that could stop the pain, he did not for a moment calm down. "I am disgusted at human nature, Watson. Lately, I have often contemplated whether to stop, to put an end to all cases – but I cannot, Watson, I cannot! And if I die in my line of duty, what use will it be, ultimately? What use would it have been, had I died in that cave? I couldn't have saved the vicar's wife and son."

"Holmes, you can't expect your death to serve a greater purpose!"

"Can't I? It did once."

To my surprise, my irritation at his arrogance was mixed with the desire to reassure him – after all, weren't those questions I had asked myself already, and a long time ago, in the sandy heat of Afghanistan. But then I was certain that Holmes had, quite contrary to myself, left his mark in the world, and would, at least, exist forever on in the accounts I had published of our cases; and, I was sure, the London air was the sweeter, and our streets the safer for his presence.

"Holmes, you can't have everything you desire, or succeed every time in full. Sometimes, we have to be content with what we get."

"I don't take failure easily, Watson. You know that."

"This is not failure! I am sure the Inspector is about to arrest the McCraines."

Holmes smirked, even though I could not shake the feeling that he was about to fall asleep from sheer exhaustion, both physically and mentally. "Is he indeed."

"If you want me to, and if you can manage, I shall go down to the police station in the village and enquire after their progress."

"Do go."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

I arrived at the police station only to find the door locked. At my knocking, a window of the adjoining house opened and an elderly, bald-headed man peered out. "The Inspector is gone to arrest the murderers."

"Splendid. Are you, by chance, able to tell me where I can find him, my good man?"

The man sneered, showing me a line of very rotten teeth. "I wouldn't know. I'm certainly not my brother's keeper." While there was no marked family resemblance between the Inspector O'Neil and his brother, I was certain that Holmes would immediately have deduced the family ties by the curious accent I had not been able to place. However, I was not allowed any further remarks, for the man slammed the window shut again with a bang that could have rattled the whole house.

I was determined not to let myself be dissuaded by so small a hindrance but to bring Holmes a full account of the affair, even if it meant to leave his side for a while and hunt down Inspector O'Neil. I had failed Holmes already in this affair – if I had been more persistent, Mrs Stewart might have told me of her husband's past, and we would have been able to prevent the tragedy; and if I had been at Holmes's side, he would not have been injured, nor, as I was convinced, would the last victims have died – and I was set on making up for it. I could not return to his side empty-handed.

Maybe it was the flaring pain of my old wounds, combined with the general weariness that I felt in regards to Holmes's presence, that made me wish I could prove to him, and to myself, that I was the companion, and colleague, he deserved. I had my doubts since the conclusion of the last case. I had gone wrong at every turn, had, in my effort to help, aggravated Holmes's condition, up to this point where he lay again injured and helpless. I had failed him as a doctor, as a colleague, and even as a friend, for I had not been able to help him with his nightmares; in fact, I had even gone so far as to suggest that he should give up his treasured profession, his life, and had paid too little attention to the case at hand, while he, valiant as ever despite his medical condition, had been willing to risk his life for it.

I could not return to report to him that I had discovered _nothing_.

Still, the image of Holmes's pale face would not allow me to depart without sending someone to his aid first, and who was better suited for the task than Holmes's own brother, who had so often rushed to our aid if the situation demanded it. Thus, I despatched a telegram via express messenger to Mycroft Holmes, and made for Mr Stewart's home, hoping that I might find the inspector there.

It was, unsurprisingly, a futile hope. I found a constable at the door, who had come down from London to assist in guarding the house. He informed me that one of his colleagues was inside with the undertakers, and indeed I had seen their cart a little further up the road.

It was a gruesome business, but I gained access to the house under the use of my friend's illustrious name and made my way upstairs to the place where the unfortunate wife and son had met their end.

I had decided that applying Holmes's methods was the most practical way to find and trace the McCraines as well as the inspector, and I really had not much choice, since I could not possibly discover by any other means which direction Inspector O'Neil had taken. I had no doubt that Holmes himself could have thought of more practical means of ascertaining his whereabouts, but that task was now upon me.

On my way up the stairs, I met the undertakers, four black-glad men carrying away two stretchers covered with white linens. My stomach turned at the sight of the outline of small body on the second stretcher, even though I could not, in fact, see the corpse.

The constable on duty was an old acquaintance of Holmes and myself, and did not hesitate to lead me into the room where the the tragedy had occurred. It was the very same room Holmes and I had visited previously. The window was thrown wide open, and chalk marks outlining the forms of the two victims marred the polished floor. The toy ship which we had admired before had fallen from its place and crashed on the floor, its masts broken. The chalk marks indicated that the poor Mrs Stewart had tried to throw open the window, but had lost consciousness in the process, her insensible hand thus upsetting the ship.

"It's a sad business, sir", the constable said. "I've been with the force for nigh on twenty years, and I still can't bear the murder of a child."

"Maybe it is just as well, Constable."

"Yes, of course. Well, sir, what are Mr Holmes's thoughts on the case?"

I looked at him in some surprise. "Mr Holmes has given the inspector all the names of the criminals. It is only a matter of catching them now. It's the same that were responsible four the four killings prior to this one."

"Last I've seen the inspector, he did not seem to think so."

"Did he not?"

"Some private affair, he said. A jealous ex-husband, most likely."

I was flabbergasted. I had no idea why Inspector O'Neil should tell his constables such a thing if he did not believe it to be true. But then, Holmes had given him all he needed to construct a case against the McCraines. Why he should just ignore the well-meant advice and go off to his own investigation was beyond me, especially since he had struck me as a highly trustworthy and efficient worker in that regard.

It occurred to me then that he did not know about the assault on Holmes's life – true, he had seen the results, but Holmes could easily have entered the tide caves under his own free will, misjudging the speed of the flood, and it was just possible that I had snatched the note from the inspector's hand before he had learned of Holmes's suspicions that he would be waylaid.

I would not have been surprised if he thought us both quite mad and had decided to follow his own line of investigation, throwing all Holmes had done for him to the wind. If so, I had to hasten to his side to convince him of his error.

"Constable, do you by chance know where the inspector went?"

"No, sir, I am sorry."

Heeding an old piece of advice of Holmes's, I left the vicar's cottage to seek out the nearest public house in search for information. It was possible that some of the idlers there had observed the tragedy at the cottage and seen the direction into which the inspector had departed.

To my utter amazement, I found the man himself, enjoying a large pint of beer at a quiet table in the corner!

"Inspector O'Neil," I addressed him, and he fairly jumped out of his seat. "What are you doing? You should be on your way to make an arrest!"

O'Neil glared at me, his entire friendly demeanour gone. "I have made an arrest. The valet of the house, off duty this weekend, obviously had an affair with the vicar's wife. She refused him, and he killed her, as well as the loathed child of her late husband."

"You can't seriously believe that! After all, Sherlock Holmes gave you every name of the gang, down to their descriptions, and the solution to the entire tragedy over the past few days! Surely, you don't imagine that the other murders were unconnected."

"Ah, the other 'murders'. As you say, Doctor, unconnected. Mr Stewart, clearly an accident. As for Mr Justin, it was probably Mr Oakshot himself who did it, out of professional jealousy. And then, feeling guilty, he and his wife committed suicide."

"By burying themselves alive!"

"Well, that was probably an accomplice who's done away with the bodies after they were dead. A servant, probably."

"And what of the Riders of Apocalypse?"

"A practical joke, Dr Watson, nothing more."

Needless to say, I could scarce believe what I was hearing. While Holmes had not been candid in his judgement of the inspector, he certainly had not anticipated such a turn of events. Surely the inspector himself could not believe such nonsense, not after Holmes had given him the very motive of the murders! I told him so in no uncertain words, and the man shrunk in his chair, hiding his face in the glass of beer. "Pray, leave me be."

"I shall not! Inspector, this gang killed six people, and tried to kill Mr Sherlock Holmes. He only very narrowly escaped the death of drowning pitifully in the tide cave! I shall not stand by while you do absolutely nothing."

To my shock, Inspector O'Neil grasped my wrist as my hand came down flat on the table. "But so you should, Dr Watson", he hissed, "so you should, as should Mr Holmes. You have seen what has happened to him. It's not healthy to stand up against this gang – it's not _sane_."

It is rare that I allow my temper to get the better of me. While it is true that I am subject to stronger emotions than my fellow men, especially Holmes, I have endeavoured to preserve that part of my military training that has taught me iron self-control in the direst of circumstances. However, I freely confess that I felt a certain rage boiling up at the inspector's words. Not only was it quite evident that he had been bribed into silence by the Riders of Apocalypse, but he had readily accepted their money, or whatever they offered, and put the whole of his profession to shame with his cowardice. Moreover, he did not only disregard Holmes's unyielding and dangerous effort to bring these men to justice, but implied that Holmes's sanity had been impaired, which was more than I would accept.

The recent events had re-awoken the terrible days of the pursuit by Professor Moriarty in my memory, and I was more than ever certain that Holmes was the foremost champion of the law I had ever had the fortune to meet, probably the best of his generation. I could not let his efforts be rendered utterly useless, his suffering utterly in vain, by some country inspector who had taken leave of his senses. "You make it amply clear how the matter stands, Inspector. I will leave you to your beer. But let it be said once and for all that neither Holmes nor I shall rest until justice is done."

_I turned on my heel, and left the pub, ignoring the hasty 'Doctor!' O'Neil called after me. _


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Once again out in the fresh air, my anger cooled down rather quickly as I strolled aimlessly through the village, pausing only briefly in the harbour to watch the seagulls picking at some unfortunate fish that had not made it back into the sea with the receding of the tide. The hour was rather late by now, and darkness fell quickly, but I could not bring myself to return to the cottage.

I feared that my news would result in rash actions on Holmes's part, and I could not allow him to even rise from his bed any time soon.

I visited the post office to see whether a reply had arrived from Mycroft. It had, and unsurprisingly, it was rather short and terse. It said: 'Affirmative – M', and that was the extend of it.

My desolate roaming did little good for my own health, as my leg continued to pain me immensely in the humid air after the recent downpour, and it also did little to set my mind at ease.

It was a pity, a shame that I should not be able to apprehend the criminals, now that Holmes had done his best to uncover their identity. It would, of course, have facilitated the matter if I had seen the photographs the Inspector had no doubt obtained before his encounter with the men themselves.

Then again, I had serious doubts whether the McCraines would be so stupid as to show their faces in the open after all the deeds they had committed. Still, they knew nothing of my association with Holmes, and were most likely of the opinion that the inspector had been the last man able to lead to their downfall.

After all, they had made quite certain that Holmes would die if no one came to his aid.

I seized that thread of thought and held onto it, following it to the end. If the Riders were indeed unconscious of my importance in this matter, they would not consider the possibility that Holmes had survived. However, they had made certain that there was no chance of survival in all their previous murders, and it seemed impossible indeed that they should not convince themselves of their success. After all, Holmes was the one serious threat to their safety now that the inspector had been bribed.

Thus, it was quite probable that they had returned to the tide cave to assure themselves of Holmes's demise. The water had only now receded. It was just possible that I would still find them there, planning their next move – after all, they had found that Holmes had by no means fallen victim to their murderous attempt. They would know, of course, that Holmes would not rest before they were brought down; likely until all four of them would be hanged for what they had done.

In a moment of foresight, I had slipped my revolver into my pocket as I departed from the cottage, although it was quite beyond me why I had brought it with me on a vacation at all – probably, after all those years, I knew that Holmes attracted crime as honey did the flies.

Slowly, considerate of my cramping leg, I found myself once again on the cliff path, still damp and slippery from the rain. The sea below appeared very sinister to me, the darkening sky above seemed to herald some greater misfortune yet. Certainly the weather indicated more rain, or perhaps indeed a coming thunderstorm, for the temperature had again plummeted, especially in the unforgiving wind that tugged at my clothes. In my pocket, I had discovered the stub of a candle and a box of matches, but I was determined not to put them to use until I reached the tide cave, or at the very least not before I had to master the steep incline towards the beach.

As I passed our cottage, I perceived a new carriage returning to the village, while the window of our sitting room and the one of Holmes's bedroom were brightly lit. It was safe to assume, then, that Mycroft Holmes had arrived and that his younger brother was safely in his care.

Briefly, the medical instinct I possessed tried to urge me to go inside and assure myself that Holmes was all right, but there was frankly no time for a detour. If I wanted to apprehend those criminals at all, I had to find them now, and fast.

The fading light of day was sufficient to lead me down to the beach, where I thoughtfully took off my boots and continued across the sand almost soundlessly. Now, as the water had receded further, the walk towards the cave entrance appeared to me to be quite long, and the cold wind threw up spray that was as efficient in soaking me to the skin as the water itself had been.

But, I moved on – there really was no other way – even as I felt my feet tingling with unnatural heat that indicated that they were, in truth, extremely cold. But, the pain was the more prominent sensation I received from my lower limbs. My shoulder, too, felt stiff, but I kept the gun clutched in my fingers, never for a moment lowering it as I entered the cave and promptly scurried behind a pillar for cover.

There was no need for me to light a candle. The light of the torch the Riders of Apocalypse had brought with them illuminated the whole of the cave, including the pillar they had fastened my dear friend to. In the light, I could see that it rose all the way up to the ceiling, offering absolutely no chance of escape, even had Holmes been able to swim and hold on until the water had risen up to the ceiling. The four of them stood gathered around the pillar, discussing in low voices, but with their excitement and anxiety clearly written on their features. I am not able to read lips as Holmes is, but it was clear to me that they were debating whether they should take further measures against my friend, while the circumstances of his escape clearly was a puzzle to them.

It occurred to me then that my approach had been rash and unplanned. How was I, even with the surprise on my side, to apprehend four able-bodied men, alone? Holmes had been alone, and while he had not carried a weapon as I did, his knowledge of various _outré _fighting techniques rendered him a far more dangerous opponent than myself. I could, of course, shoot the criminals from the spot I was hidden, but every fibre of my being protested against that notion, even though they had very nearly killed my dearest friend. I felt that justice would be the greater punishment for all of them; however, I had my doubts whether I would have hesitated to use my weapon if they had succeeded in killing Holmes in the very cruel way they had designed for him.

It was the criminals themselves that forced me into acting, for they had apparently decided on a course of action and were about to depart, one after the other marching past the pillar I had hidden behind.

Quickly, I jumped forth from my hiding place, and pressed the muzzle of my gun against the temple of the one criminal bearing the torch. It was not one of the twins, but the slenderest member of the family, Ralf McCraine, whom we had already met at the vicar's cottage.

At his terrified yelp, the others spun round, but the torch had dropped into a puddle and gone out, engulfing us all in darkness. "Don't move, any of you, or I shall shoot him." I was quite pleased that my voice did not quaver, but held a military sternness and confidence I hardly felt as their piercing gazes locked onto me. I laid my arm around Ralf McCraine's neck without moving my gun from his temple, and restricted his flow of air until he gasped and ceased his struggle.

"Dr Watson," he croaked.

One of my opponents, Arthur, burst out laughing, a thoroughly disquieting sound. "What do you intent to do, Doctor? You can't stop us. Just let us go, like a good fellow, and we might even leave Mr Holmes be. After all, we have rather warned him off, have we not?"

"I don't believe you. March ahead; I shall take the lot of you to the police station, and deliver you into the hands of the British law."

To my shame, I had not paid attention to the movements of the twins. Bulky as they were, they were also extremely stealthy, and suddenly, one of them was behind me, before I had even noticed that he had moved in the dim light. Merciless, a boot crashed into my lower back, sending both me and Ralf McCraine crashing into the ground. My gun skittered away and was picked up by Arthur McCraine while I still lay on the ground, trying to catch my breath as a searing pain coursed through my spine. I had not yet recovered when another boot came down squarely onto my old wound.

Bright lights exploded in my vision, and everything shifted out of focus. All thoughts were wiped from my mind, with the exception of the one: _Fool_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

I had not yet recovered when I was dragged to my feet in much the same hold I had applied on Ralf McCraine. My mistreated leg did little to support my weight. Instead, I felt it tensing under the incomprehensible pain it radiated, blurring my vision as well as my thoughts, and soon it twitched from a severe, uncontrollable cramp the likes of which I had not experienced for years.

All I desired was to curl in on myself, clutching my leg, and weep, but, of course, the Riders of Apocalypse had other ideas.

I was forced to stumble ahead as they were in motion once again, heading back towards the beach, where the darkness was now almost complete. Unsurprisingly, though, the criminals knew their way in the dark.

The twin trapping me in his unyielding grip had fallen behind a fraction due to my inability to walk properly, and suddenly, I could see two of the men ahead break into a run, while Arthur McCraine, bearing my gun, whirled around and aimed.

Immediately, I closed my eyes against the flash and the pain of a bullet penetrating my flesh. It seemed like an eternity before I heard the report of the gun, there was a gust of air at my left ear, and suddenly, with a gurgling sound, the man behind me dropped away, and we both crumpled to the ground as Arthur, too, took his leave.

He had shot his own brother.

The sight of the criminal's staring gaze, filled with incredulity and fear, and yet so very empty, will be seared into my memory forever. The bullet had passed squarely through his forehead, penetrating the brain and killing him in an instant.

Horrified, I scrambled away from where his blood was pooling and soaking the already wet sand, stumbling more than running towards the place where I had left my boots, and then hurrying up the pathway without bothering to put them on.

I wondered briefly whether the gun's report had been heard in the village, and whether anyone would come to investigate. It had been my gun that killed the man, my bullet, and if I should be found anywhere in the vicinity, I had no doubt whatsoever that I would be arrested for the murder of one of the McCraines.

My face was still burning because I had let the criminals escape due to my own stupidity and inability to stand up to a struggle. However, I knew that I had to return to the cottage now – there was nothing for it. The night had the country in its firm grip, and I was in no fit state to travel back to the village, or to any other place.

Indeed, I had to pause a mere fifty yards away from the cottage, as my leg started to cramp again. I had no doubts that the night would be a true hell for myself, and I even considered the pain medication contained within my medical bag. Sedation myself would at least spare me the indignity of facing Holmes, as well as relieve my pain.

However, I had not yet hoisted myself to my feet again when a figure came towards me out of the dark, calling my name. Even in the hushed tone in which he spoke, I would have recognised that masterly voice everywhere. In fact, his voice was but the slightest bit deeper than that of his younger brother. "Doctor? Dr Watson?"

"Yes, it is I. I'm glad you could come, Mycroft." I clasped his hand warmly, with a smile stretched thin over my lips. I had no doubts that the elder of the Holmes brothers had already perceived my state of disarray, the fact that I was not wearing but carrying my boots, and the relentless quivering of my leg, even though I had pressed one hand on the old scar in an attempt to dampen the pain – in vain, naturally.

"So am I, Doctor. Under normal circumstances, I would enquire what has transpired just now, but I am afraid these are far from normal circumstances. I'm sorry to bother you when you are obviously in so much pain, but Sherlock is not at all well. A fever has set in, and he has been asking after you."

"Good heavens!"

Grateful for the steady arm Mycroft offered me, I limped towards the cottage at top speed. I should have accounted for the fact that such a near-drowning was likely to lead to complications, and I dreaded to think that Holmes could have contracted pneumonia. "Is he delirious?" I asked as we entered the cottage.

Mycroft shook his head. "Disoriented, and not himself, yes, but not severely delirious."

"Very well." I dumped my boots rather unceremoniously in the hallway, and made my way through the sitting room, where I picked up my medical bag, to Holmes's bedroom, where my good friend lay in the dim light of a gas lamp, pale as the sheets that surrounded him. His eyes were shadowed, lids drooping with utter exhaustion even as he focussed on me, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Watson?" His voice was hoarse, as I had expected, but it was the extreme weariness of his demeanour that really alerted me. He did not move, if one disregarded the laboured falling and expanding of his chest, and the trembling in his hands, which rested on the coverlet.

"Yes, my dear fellow."

Mycroft had placed a bowl of water and a cloth on the bedside table, of which I made immediate use. It was thoroughly unnecessary to feel Holmes's forehead to ascertain that he was feverish. I soaked the cloth in cold water, wrung it out and sat down on the edge of Holmes's bed to place it on his forehead.

His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a small sigh escaping him.

"How do you feel, Holmes?" I whispered. I had to know how serious his condition was, if I were to treat him for it.

"Horrid."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

Mycroft Holmes, who had hovered protectively at the foot of the bed, stepped forward. "If I may, Doctor. He has been plagued by a cough ever since I have arrived, and in general seems listless and rather sleepy."

The corners of Holmes's mouth twisted upwards for a moment. "Thank you, brother mine." At the very least, he was well enough for brotherly bickering, which was a relief to me, although I silently berated myself for leaving his side in the first place.

Holmes shifted under the blanket. "I'm sure if you would just leave me to my peace, I would feel much better in the-" His words were cut of by two coughs that racked his body, the cold cloth slipping from his forehead.

I reached up to readjust it, but Holmes himself beat me to it and promptly turned away from me, shifting to his side with the utmost carefulness in regards to his ankle. Neither Mycroft nor I failed to hear his wince, or notice the fact that his hand had come to rest on his chest, which he massaged absent-mindedly.

"Holmes? Does your chest hurt?"

"Watson..." His voice, if weak and very low, was tinged with annoyance.

"Just answer the question, little brother."

Even in the semi-darkness of the room, I could see Holmes glaring at his brother, who stood by the bed with a barely concealed smirk on his face, his corpulent hands clasped together in front of him.

"Yes," Holmes whispered, and I extracted my stethoscope from my bag with some concern, placing it against Holmes's back. He did not flinch away, had probably foreseen what I was about to do.

My concern for his health had grown considerably, and it seemed indeed likely that he had contracted a mild case of pneumonia. His breath came in halting wheezes. "Mycroft, I would be much obliged to you if you could fetch something to drink from the kitchen."

"Yes, certainly." The elder Holmes moved with considerable speed from the room, and I had no doubts that he had divined my real purpose. If Holmes did not fall asleep any minute now, we would most certainly come to speak of the case, and I would rather admit to my shameful failure in Holmes's presence alone.

"Watson? You have been gone rather long, and your leg pains you considerably. Would you care to explain?"  
"You really should rest, Holmes."

"What is it, my friend?"

"The case..."

"O'Neil hasn't made his arrest, then."

"No, he has not. Nor will he."

For a moment, Holmes's entire body tensed, but he quickly relaxed again, even if it seemed somewhat forced. "Explain."

"The McCraines have bribed him into silence."

"Then where have you been?"

"I tried to apprehend them."

"Alone?"

"Yes," I said, my face burning with humiliation. It was bad enough to hear Holmes criticize my actions when I myself thought them to be sufficient, I was not sure whether I could bear it when I was convinced that I had acted utterly foolishly, so shortly after I had been clearly shown my physical limits. "I found them in the tide cave. It was a foolish idea, no doubt."

"Yes," said Sherlock Holmes, his voice sharp as steel, even though it was very weak. "Without a doubt it was very foolish. What gave you the idea you could arrest a gang of some of the cruellest murderers we have thus far encountered single-handedly?"

"Holmes, could we please just let the matter drop? I am very tired, and I believe so are you."

"We can't allow the murderers to get away, Watson!" he cried with some heat, the sudden energy no doubt stemming from his fever.

"Good heavens, Holmes! You have to rest! I won't allow you to take any action in this matter!"

"Then we shall have to secure help elsewhere. I want you to travel to London, and seek the aid of Scotland Yard."

"Of course," said I, more than conscious of the fact that I should have thought of that even as I had been talking to the constable in the vicar's cottage. "I shall go to town in the morning."

"No, tonight. Watson, it has to be tonight, or they will be forever beyond our reach."

"Very well. I trust your brother will keep a close watch over your health."

"I am certain he will."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

It was for that reason that I departed upon another errand in so short a time, even though I was somewhat disquieted by Holmes's declining condition, not to speak of the blinding pain that had settled down in my own abused limb.

Of course I informed Mycroft Holmes of my departure, and gave him ample instructions as to how to treat his brother, which he put instantly to use as Holmes's coughing startled us both. He did not fail to observe the way I leaned on my walking stick, but said nothing to stop me. "I will be here when you return, Dr Watson."

"Thank you, Mycroft. I don't think your brother should be left alone at the present."

"No, he should not. Good luck, Doctor."

I made use of the carriage this time, travelling to the village, from where I took the train into town. It was late in the night by now, and the train was almost deserted, allowing me to claim a compartment for myself. Wearily, I sank down upon the bench, and stretched my legs until they rested on the opposing bench, trying to lessen the tension in my thigh muscle. I wouldn't have thought to embark on any such journey under normal circumstances, but I felt that I owed it to Holmes to obey his wishes after I had so thoroughly committed a blunder that could easily render his near-death futile, and would leave the slaughter of six people unavenged.

I would have liked to doze away during the journey, but the pain in my leg quite prohibited any sleep, and thus I sat staring out of the window, where, of course, there was nothing to see but blackness, and the occasional light of a building, but even those were far and few between since it was now well past midnight.

To my relief, I was able to engage a cab as I descended from the train, and it speedily brought me to the very doorstep of Scotland Yard.

I paid my fee, and approached the building, conscious of the fact that one of the inspectors Holmes and I were acquainted with was bound to be on duty during the night. The constable in the hallway nodded at me in recognition and pointed me to Inspector Hopkins's bureau.

In a way, I was relieved that it should be Hopkins, for he was a keen admirer of Holmes's methods and of the man himself, and was therefore more likely to follow his summons than any of the older inspectors would be.

Hopkins was perched precariously on the edge of his chair, whistling some tune to himself while he scribbled busily on his files. He looked up as I limped into his office, the clatter of my walking stick loud enough in the nightly silence to make any knocking superfluous.

In an instant, the young man was on his feet and at my side, placing his hand on my elbow. "Good heavens, Dr Watson! You look as if you'd been run over by a cab! What has happened?"

I smiled tiredly as he guided me towards a chair. Oh, indeed, I was getting old. I must have presented a deplorable spectacle, for even as I was seated, Hopkins did not leave my side, as if I would topple off the chair at any moment – which, on second thought, was far more likely than I cared to admit. My leg had not ceased its trembling since I had left the train.

"It is not as horrible as you seem to think, Hopkins. Holmes and I wish to engage your help in a case. We have identified the criminals, but we could use some men to help apprehend them."

"Right you are, Doctor. I will presently listen to the particulars, but I must insist that you make good use of my bench here. You look white as a ghost, if you pardon me for saying so."

"It has been a rather trying day," I replied, but remained seated. "I would prefer we could handle this quickly, and immediately. Precious time has already been lost since the local inspector refuses to act against these men. He is afraid." It was not the entire truth, of course, but I had no wish to criticise O'Neil in front of his colleague.

"I see. Well, what are the names?"

I briefly summarized the whole story for Hopkins, omitting only my own unfortunate attempt.

Hopkins listened to everything with the attentiveness that was so typical to his character, and so useful in his pursuit of crime, especially if he were intent on applying Holmes's methods.

"I shall certainly see to it immediately, Doctor." Hopkins walked toward the telephone in his office. "I shall contact Edinburgh for the particulars, and take whatever measures necessary to block the harbours, and stop them from leaving the country. I trust that I shall have our men by morning."

"I shall accompany you, of course," said I, rising to me feet despite the unsteadiness of my leg.

"No, Doctor. Mr Holmes would never forgive me if I were to let you walk in this condition. I insist that you rest immediately. I assure you, I shall wake you if anything of importance occurs."

I have no clear recollection of how I came to lie down on Hopkins's bench, or how I fell asleep, but as it was I only came to my senses as Hopkins was bending ober me, shaking my shoulder to rouse me from a sleep so deep that I had slept right into the morning without noticing any of the movement around me.

"Dr Watson, we have our men. I shall travel down to Dover to interview them now. I assume you would like to accompany me?"

"Yes, of course," said I, trying not to blush in embarrassment. Holmes was able to work for days on end in the most trying conditions, and I had allowed myself to slumber away the very climax of the case.

Hopkins raised his brows. "You are pushing yourself to hard, Doctor, if I might say so. I am sure that there is no further danger from those men. We have them securely under lock and key."

"I know you have, Inspector. I shall feel the better for it when I have returned to Holmes, I am sure. But for now, I wish to see those men."

"I trust there is ample evidence to convict them."

I hesitated. There was, in fact, hardly any evidence. Holmes himself had admitted that they had very carefully removed any circumstantial traces of their involvement, with the exception of their trademark, the notes left by the Riders of Apocalypse. I did not possess the excessive knowledge of British law that Holmes had stored in his brain attic, but if he was convinced that supplying the motive was enough to justify an arrest, surely it would be enough to convict them? Especially since Holmes assumed that they would confess to the deed at any rate. I told Hopkins as much, and was horrified to observe that he frowned deeply.

"Mr Holmes has to be unwell indeed if he expects those men to make a confession merely because they were caught. Besides, there is a serious flaw in his reasoning: it's only three of them, not four."

I stiffened as I recalled with horror what had become of the fourth McCraine brother. The matter was of course unknown to Inspector Hopkins, since I had deliberately omitted it earlier, and it had until this moment quite slipped my mind. "One of them has been killed by his brothers," I said, clearing my throat. I assumed that the corpse would have been found by the authorities by now, and could only hope that Hopkins would not pursue the matter further.

"I see. Why would they do that?" the Inspector continued as we both climbed into the cab that had been waiting for us at the front door.

"I'm sure I have no idea, Inspector. I have merely been witness to the deed from a distance." It was, perhaps, unwise to admit that I had been at the scene of the deed at all, but I felt that I owed the inspector a reply for his generous offer of help, even though he had hardly anything to base his accusations on other than the word of an overwrought and tired doctor and a sick and injured detective.

The journey passed without notable occurrence, and we soon arrived at the police headquarters in the town of Dover, where the remaining members of the Riders of Apocalypse were held.

A small, thin inspector with a nonetheless puffy face which rather gave him the appearance of a disproportioned teddy bear welcomed us at the door and speedily led us down to the holding cells. "I trust you can throw some light on this, Hopkins. The three of them demand to be released as there seems to be no evidence against them. I have telegraphed to Inspector O'Neil, the local authority on the scene of the crimes, and he assures me that the matter has been cleared up entirely. He says there never was any hint as to this curious Riders of Apocalypse."

Hopkins cast me a sidelong glance. "I am sure Dr Watson here can throw some light on the matter."

The other inspector, who went by the fitting name of Theodore Roades, eyed me with a curious expression, then burst out laughing. "Forgive me, Doctor. I thought for a moment you could be the doctor from the stories! But of course that is ridiculous. Surely Watson is a common enough name. May I ask what is your interest in the matter?"

I was, as I freely admit, stunned into silence, while Hopkins flushed bright red. It is a common enough occurrence that my name is immediately associated with the stories of Holmes's case that I have been able to publish, and I have often received the warmest of welcomes and many a kind word of appreciation. However, I could not recall one instance when my name was known but written off as a coincidence!

Hopkins cleared his throat, looking rather flustered. "I assure you, Roades, this is Dr John Watson, of literary, and, if I may say so, justified fame. He is here on behalf of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Seldom have I seen so quick a succession of emotions pass over a man's face. Roades gaped at Hopkins in surprise, then stared ahead as we walked for some moments, before he returned to me with an apologetic smile. "I am sorry, Dr Watson, but I'm sure you will forgive me this mistake. I have not expected to see you acting alone – your stories rather convey the expression that you hardly leave Mr Holmes's side."

"That is not so, Inspector. Mr Holmes is unwell and cannot travel at present, which is why he has send me."

"I see. Well, what is this all about?"

Thus, I was forced to relate the story yet again, and Hopkins added the detailed information he had gathered from his colleagues in Edinburgh. When we finally arrived at the holding cells, Inspector Roades motioned us to be quiet. "We had to separate them, and clear the section. They disturbed the other prisoners, who, as you both know, are usually only in here for a day or two."

"What did they do?" I inquired, my curiosity piqued.

"I have no idea, Doctor. Whenever any of us comes down here, they are as quiet as a grave. Hear for yourself."

There was, of course, nothing to be heard but our own footsteps.

"Well, which of the gang do you want to see, Hopkins? This one there, an Owen McCraine seems to be pretty dim. The others, though, are sharp as knives, I tell you! Ralf and Arthur, they are."

Hopkins looked at me. "What do you say, Dr Watson?"

"Ralf McCraine seems the most rational of the lot. Maybe we'll get farthest with him." In truth, I had no wish to see the second twin, who was sure to look exactly like the dead man I had left lying on the beach without even bothering to cover him up, or Arthur McCraine, whose laugh made me shiver even with just the memory of it.

"I agree."

"Well, to the left then, gentlemen." Inspector Roades pulled a keyring from his belt and unlocked one of the strong wooden doors.

The room behind it was only dimly lit, the only source of light being the small window just below the ceiling. However, the room's only occupant created us with the bearing of a gentleman in his own living quarters rather than with that of a prisoner. "Welcome, Inspectors. And Dr Watson. It is good to see you again. How is that leg of yours holding up?" Ralf McCraine smirked, and I couldn't stop myself from tightening my grip on my walking stick. It was all I could do not to snap at him.

"The game is up, Mr McCraine. I suggest you admit to your deeds. I'm sure Holmes and I could speed matters up for you."

"Charming, Doctor."

I began to question the wisdom of my decision to see Ralf McCraine. The man was practically _purring _ and I was no match for his sharp tongue in my current state. In fact, the journey to Dover had again tired me considerably, and I was sure I would be asleep as soon as I lay down anywhere.

"Mr McCraine, I assure you you will only have to suffer through a lengthy stay in prison again if you refuse the kindness Dr Watson is offering you. If you confess to your deeds now, I will see to it that the sentence is speedily carried out for all of you."

"You seem to think that there will be a sentence, Inspector." Ralf McCraine turned his back to us, a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You have no evidence to convict me, or my brothers. You will soon find you have no choice but to release us, since we have had absolutely nothing to do with any of the deeds we have been accused of. It is really quite funny!" He barked a laugh that was so close an imitation of my friend's that I found myself veritably boiling with anger at his arrogance.

Hopkins had apparently noticed my distress, for he placed a hand on my arm. "You can be quite certain, Mr McCraine, that in this case, you and your brothers were the only ones with a motive who were on the location. You had close contact to the vicar's family, and disappeared right after the murder."

"I was to meet with my brothers, Inspector! Had I known what a cruel faith would befall the poor woman after my departure, I would never have left. I came there out of concern for her. As for the motive, I assure you I have no idea to what you are alluding."

"What about the attack on Mr Sherlock Holmes?" I said, keeping my voice low and calm, but as sharp as a knife. I had not lived with Holmes for nothing. "He is well able to identify you."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Dr Watson. As for Mr Holmes, he looked decidedly unwell the last time we met, the poor man. I fear he is subject to rather violent delusions."

"Very well, McCraine," interjected Inspector Hopkins before I had any chance to reply, my temper roused. "This is a waste of time. I will be seeing you shortly." With that, Hopkins shoved me out of the cell and guided me up the hallway, leaving Roades behind to lock up the door.

"I am sorry, Inspector. I had not assumed we would meet with so much resistance."

"Nor I. However, we are faced with a serious difficulty – it seems that all substantial evidence has vanished into thin air, including the wooden cross you described. I have had a man down at the police station in that village yesterday evening, and he is trustworthy. I am afraid that I will have to let the men go if they fail to confess the deed. That is, what could possibly work is confronting them with physical evidence of their involvement."

"Under no circumstances will I allow Holmes to come down here, or to be dragged. He is in no fit state to leave his bed, Inspector!"

"More's the pity. Well, I believe you should return to Mr Holmes's side, then. I shall see what can be done."


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28 **

As there was indeed nothing else for me to achieve in Dover, Hopkins accompanied me to the train station to see me off on my way back to the unfortunate village. I felt that this behaviour was rather below my pride, but, as I have to admit, entirely justified, for I stumbled on my way into the carriage and would have had a rather nasty fall had Hopkins not be there to catch me. I felt absolutely drained, not to speak of the pain that had flared up with new intensity since I had left the damp cell in which Ralf McCraine was kept.

As much as I loathed to confess it, I was returning to Holmes's side disarmed and empty-handed, with not even a fraction of good news. I feared the effect this would have on my dear friend's mood, which had already been exceptionally low since he had come to his senses after his close brush with death.

The small incident with Inspector Roades had also distressed me greatly. It seemed to be a minor occurrence on the face of things, but in my eyes, it was not. While Holmes was constantly under the public gaze due to his appearances, at least by name, in various newspapers, I had not published a story in many a year due to Holmes's own unyielding resistance on that point. I could understand why he placed restrictions on the publishing of the more delicate cases, but I failed to understand why he would not have any publications at all. Of course he insisted that I wrote the cases at any rate, to publish them once he had retired, but that could be in oh-so-many years, considering the relentless energy he still seemed to be able to devote to his cases even in the direst of times.

Thus, my own identity began to slip from the mind of the great public, and soon I would be nothing more than a fictional foil for the great detective, a device he bounced ideas off and which trailed behind him like a loyal dog. I have never considered myself to be merely that, but it was in fact rare that Sherlock Holmes allowed me to think otherwise.

Even his note, which had been designed to inform me of his demise, had been as restrained as was his usual demeanour.

It may be that my own physical condition and the constant pain in my old wound led me to be a trifle harsh on myself and on Holmes, but such were my thoughts at the time, made all the bleaker by the prospect that the men who had committed multiple murders and had caused my good friend grave injuries would run free.

A boy at the station was kind enough to ready the carriage for me which I had left there the night before on my departure for London, and I was grateful for the means of transport. I was certain that my leg would not have stood up for the lengthy walk to the cottage.

The boy accompanied me and saw to the horses while I limped up to the door and let myself in. The whole cottage was eerily quiet, and for a moment, I was seized by an entirely irrational feeling of horror, until Mycroft Holmes stuck his head out of his brother's bedroom, placed one of his large fingers over his lip and motioned me closer. "Sherlock is asleep."

I could see into the bedroom around him, and indeed there was Holmes, huddled in the covers, over which a chequered duvet was thrown, slumbering peacefully. A piece of cloth rested on his brow, but his face was relaxed and he did not seem feverish any more. "How is he?"

"Much better, Doctor. The cough subsided during the night, and the fever broke at dawn. He is very exhausted, but of course he was anxious to know what had become of his case. Your long absence worried him greatly."

"I'm fine," said I, unable to comprehend the meaning behind Mycroft's words in my own desolate state of mind at the present. "I'm afraid the case will not be a success."

Mycroft's expression darkened with worry and he motioned me to the armchairs of the sitting room, pulling the door to the bedroom shut behind him. "Then you bring bad news."

"Yes. Inspector Hopkins will most likely be forced to release the gang for lack of evidence. They deny their involvement, of course, and without the cooperation of the local inspector, there is nothing to back up Holmes's view on this case. All evidence has vanished to thin air – most likely O'Neil's deed. The man has been soundly bribed."

"Surely Sherlock's injuries and identification will be enough?"

"I can not risk moving him from this cottage, and I would prefer it if he remained in his bed. If I tell him that his presence is needed, he would try to get up, and probably aggravate his condition as far as to make it fatal. Besides, his testimony would lead to a prison sentence, at the most, and there would be no justice for all the other victims of this gang."

"Their confession is the only way, then."

"Indeed."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure you would agree with me that we should gloss matters over for Sherlock. His over-active mind is rather bothering him, especially since he is confined to his bed."

"I agree."

The elder of the Holmes brothers rose with a grace that one would not have expected in view of his stature. "Then I shall talk to him. Remain seated, Dr Watson, and rest. You look as though you need it."

Mycroft returned to the bedroom, and though he left the door ajar, I could not hear his words, only the low mumbling of his deep voice. The rhythm of his speech was peculiar, while very soothing, and it only later occurred to me that he had been speaking in French. Holmes's reply was barely audible at all, but it was only as Mycroft called my name that I dared venture closer.

Holmes has often remarked that I had no gift for acting, and while I trust I do have enough skill to deceive someone else, it is true that Holmes himself has always been able to see through my lies. It was fortunate indeed that Mycroft should have been there to gloss the reality over, as he had expressed it.

Holmes lay half elevated on the a pile of pillows now, the cloth had disappeared, and his hands were clasped together in the familiar position rather than hidden under the duvet. He looked at me through half-closed lids, evidently very tired, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Watson. It is about time you returned."

"I have been to London and Dover, to see the arrested men."

"Mycroft has already told me as much." Holmes followed his brother with his gaze as the elder rose to relinquish the chair by the bed to me. "Have you given all the particulars to Hopkins?"

"Yes, certainly. He has even been in touch with Edinburgh."

"Did you show him the telegram, then?"

"No, I did not think it necessary."

"Ah, well, maybe it wasn't."

"Sherlock." We both looked up at Mycroft Holmes, as he stood by the foot of the bed, suddenly tense. "Physical evidence."

"Of course!" Holmes's eyes were suddenly wide open and he grasped my wrist. "Watson, you should have thought of it! Why did you not confront the McCraines with the telegram? They can't get past that!"

"I didn't... I didn't even have it with me. It is still lying on the coffee table."

"Ah, Watson." Holmes let go of my wrist, appearing very tired again. "I really am disappointed. You should have taken the telegram with you at least – you could have had a confession by now. In the meantime, Hopkins has probably released them!"

For a moment, I was stunned speechless by the feverish vigour in Holmes's voice, but I recovered myself soon enough. "I am sorry, Holmes."

"Pshaw, there is nothing for it. I shall have to go down myself."

"No!" I cried, placing my hand on his shoulder to keep him in bed. "You will go nowhere!"

Holmes glared at me with true venom I hardly ever saw directed at me, and only ever during times of sickness. "And let the murderers escape? Watson..."

"I shall go. Immediately."

"Doctor..."

I ignored Mycroft's words, as well as his worried tone. "I will be back before sunset."

"Good." Holmes relaxed back into the cushions. "Don't forget the telegram this time."

"I won't!"

By the time I had reached the front door and was ready to depart, heaven had once again opened its floodgates for a veritable downpour, resulting in further twinges of my leg. But Holmes was right, there was no time to be lost now. I had blundered often enough during this case, and I would never forgive myself if the McCraines were to be released.

I almost fell as I made my way over the slippery cobblestones towards the little building where the carriage was kept. The boy, who had not yet departed because of the rain, readied it again for me after I had flipped him a coin, but promptly curled under his overcoat on a small bench again after I had led the horses out into the rain. Of course the animals were not pleased by the recent turn of the weather, but they moved forward readily enough as I took my place on the driver's bench, and also obeyed to my urging them to hurry.

It was as the cobble-stones met the road that a horrid screeching sounded in my ears, the horses whinnied, and suddenly, the world tilted.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

_Holmes_

It was as if I had been thrown directly into one of my nightmares. There was no warning whatsoever – of course not, there hadn't been one the first time either.

Mycroft was lecturing me on my insensitivity concerning Watson – my illness, no doubt, had led me to overlook the fact that my dear friend was in considerable pain. Mycroft can become quite agitated when he is angry, as I have often had the occasion to observe in the past. However, his exact wording or even the precise content of our conversation were quite wiped from my mind by the horrid screeching that was audible even over the constant drumming of the rain on the windowsill.

It is quite possible that I have heard that sound a hundred times since that particular incident during my childhood, and it always gives me pause, but this time, both Mycroft and I froze entirely, our gazes locked.

He has, of course, an even clearer memory of the incident. Even though it has not affected him emotionally to the same degree as myself, he is the elder, and when one is older, the memory is always less distorted by childish perceptions. As so many years ago, Mycroft was the first to recover, even as the horses' whinnying resounded in the night and a rather startled scream followed, he was by my side and grasped my wrist. "Sherlock..." There was a warning tone in his voice, but at that moment I was quite willing to ignore it, no matter the consequences.

"Watson," I breathed, not quite trusting my voice, or my mind, for that matter. However, Mycroft's expression told me all I had to know.

"Sherlock, don't..."

"And what? Let him bleed to death?"

"Sherlock..." he retorted, his eyes full of meaning I did not want to, could not, accept.

"No!" With energy that, I freely admit, stemmed from nothing but panic, I threw back the covers and stood, ignoring the angry pain that flared up in my ankle, ignoring the fact that it would not support me properly. Maybe it was ridiculous to try defying the laws of medicine, but in such moments as this, one's body is capable of many a thing one would regard as impossible in any normal state.

Mycroft did not try to hold me back as I stumbled rather than walked towards the front door, where I gathered a walking stick from the stand and pushed the door open. Outside, it was dark and eerily silent, or so it seemed to me. The sound of the rain mingled with the blood rushing in my ears, and my vision blurred.

_A dark, wet night. A horse's scream of agony. The rain. Silence, interrupted only by a scream – my scream. Where the parlour met the road... _

I did not hesitate on the doorstep. In a matter of seconds, I was outside, not caring about the fact that I was only dressed in my nightclothes and a dressing gown – I did not even feel that I was drenched to the skin immediately, and that I would likely catch a cold on top of anything else. The carriage was an indistinct shape in the darkness where the slippery cobble-stones met the road, the only movement from one of the horses trying to regain its footing.

"Watson!"

There was no reply.

_A form of a human being. So still, so motionless. Liquid glittering in the light of the candle. Red. Blood. Dead. _

I quickened my pace, battling against the gruesome images my memory conjured up only too vividly. The carriage obstructed my view, and it was so dark – I had not thought to bring a candle, I was struggling to keep my balance as it was.

"Watson?"

Still, no answer.

The carriage had skittered over the cobble-stones, caught in a hole, the wheel had broken, and it had crashed, burying one horse under it. Watson was not on this side of the carriage, naturally. He would have been thrown from the driver's seat, falling into the direction the carriage had tilted, not towards the wheels.

I rounded the vehicle. "Watson? Please..."

There he was. Lying some feet away from the carriage, his form illuminated by the light streaming from the front door of the cottage. His back was turned towards me, but he lay twisted, his face towards the sky and the rain. There was something liquid glittering under his head.

I was at his side in a matter of seconds, falling to my knees beside him, ignoring the angry, piercing pain in my ankle.

Not blood. It was a puddle of water. Not blood. I nearly laughed in relief, but Watson lay so very still. His eyes were closed, but there was a whisper of breathing coming from his mouth. I felt for a pulse, and found it, the gentle beat throbbing relentlessly against my fingers. "Watson, old fellow. Watson, wake up, please. Watson? Tell me you are all right."

I cradled his head in my lap, pushing him into a more comfortable position. There was a bump forming at the back of his head, and even in unconsciousness, he winced at my touch.

"Come, Watson, wake up. My dear fellow, my friend, I am so very sorry." And suddenly, there was a heavy lump in my throat, and I couldn't continue.

The rain was pouring down upon us both.

I was not...


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30 **

_Watson_

_Crying_.

The first thing that came to my attention as I regained consciousness was the sound of a sob stifled in the back of a throat, then some more, muffled into a hand.

My own hand – the right – was somehow trapped. I felt confused, dizzy, and it took some time before I managed to recall what had happened. The carriage...

_Oh, good heavens._ "Holmes?" My voice was so low I was barely able to register it myself.

But Holmes, if it was, indeed, he, had heard, for his breath caught for a moment and he pressed my hand with both of his. "Watson? Are you awake, my dear friend?"

I forced my eyes open, only to close them again immediately. It was raining – I was still outside? How had Holmes been able to come to me, with the injury to his ankle? How had Mycroft been so careless as to allow him...

"I have to apologize about the rain, Watson. It doesn't seem as if it is about to stop any time soon." Holmes's voice was tinged with a chuckle, but there was a sombre undertone in his voice that quite startled me.

I struggled to sit up, even though it made my head spin and sent shivers through my body as my thoroughly drenched clothes touched my skin. The old wound in my leg screamed vile oaths of pain at me, but that was to be ignored at present. Opening my eyes only to stare at the overturned carriage where the boy was freeing one of the horses – the other, apparently, had not survived – I felt the back of my head. There was a bump, but that was to be expected, but no serious damage. I could easily have broken my neck in the fall. However, my own needs were secondary to those of my friend, who was far from healthy or fit to stay out in the freezing rain – I did not even want to know how he had arrived there.

"Watson?"

I turned to face him for the first time since I had awoken, although I was well aware of the fact that he had sheltered my head in his lap until I regained consciousness.

Holmes looked very much the worse for wear. He half-knelt, half-sat on the ground, one hand now cradling his ankle, while he supported himself with the other hand. A walking stick lay nearby, but it was clear that the effort of walking had cost him dearly, as I could easily tell by the way in which his mouth was pressed to a thin line. He met my gaze evenly, but under his heavy eyelids, his eyes were dark and wet and conveyed such agony I had hardly ever seen in any human's features.

It would be easy to say now that I had realised immediately what was amiss, aside from the obvious fact that he had severely aggravated his previous injury. But the fact is, I did not. It may be attributed to the nasty headache I was beginning to feel, or to the nausea that signalled a concussion. However, I do not strive to find excuses for myself.

It was only as Holmes reached out to grasp my wrist, pressing his fingers onto my pulse point that I began to see dimly what had shaken him so. Even though his grip was iron, I could feel him trembling. "I am so very relieved that..." He trailed off, averting his gaze. Instead, he stared up into the rain, eyes unfocussed, but his grip unyielding. "Watson, you _are _here? I have not finally... gone mad?"

With that statement, the last pieces of the puzzle clicked together in my mind and I did not hesitate for a moment but embraced Holmes. He was uncomfortable with such displays of emotion, but I was determined to give him something to hold on to while he battled with the horrid memories of his childhood. I could not imagine the horror he had felt at discovering that I had had an accident that was so strikingly similar to the one that had killed Celine, but I could feel the shivers and suppressed sobs that wracked his body. It was rare that Holmes was overcome by his emotions, and rarer still that he allowed anyone to witness them. I expected him to push me away after a few moments; however, for once, he did not tense under my embrace, but allowed me to offer what little support I could. "I am so sorry, Holmes. For frightening you so. And for failing you. If I had not made a mistake at any step on the way, we would have this gang securely under lock and key by now. I'm sorry."

To my surprise, his head snapped around at this, his gaze locking steadily on mine, despite the fact that there still was a tear rolling down his cheek. "You have nothing, nothing at all to apologise for, Watson. It is I who have to offer my sincerest apologies. My dear friend, I have treated you abysmally throughout those past days. Not only have I again left you behind in the knowledge that I could very well be walking into my death, but I have not even bothered to thank you for saving my life. Instead, I sent you away on the most dangerous errant even though your own physical exhaustion should have been obvious to me. And when you returned empty-handed due no fault of your own, I scolded you for overlooking what even I failed to consider, and sent you away again, almost... almost to your death. There is no excuse for my behaviour, Watson. I can only beg your forgiveness."

I was deeply touched by his speech. "It was not all unfortunate circumstances, Holmes. I _did _blunder. After all those years in your company, I should have known better."

"So should I, Watson," he said, his gaze unwavering. "Let it be known now for once and for all, Watson, that I would not have the honour to call you my friend and colleague if I didn't think you the worthiest and best of men, and indeed the wisest and most patient soul I have ever met. My dear fellow, you never do yourself justice. You are not, in any way, inferior to myself. It might be true that you do not bring the same amount of natural talent into the science of deduction as myself, but I assure you you quite make up for it with your humanity. My dear friend, I am deeply touched and honoured to have you by my side."

"Thank you, Holmes."

The corners of his mouth twisted into a small smile and he finally lowered his gaze. "Now, Watson, if you ever publish this particular adventure, I do insist that you include this statement."

I chuckled, sitting back on my heals. "I shall, Holmes, when I am allowed to publish it! By now I believe I shall be old and grey by then."

For a moment, a deep sadness flickered over Holmes's face, enough for me to grab his hand again. "Perhaps not, my dear Watson."

"Holmes?"

"Never mind. We really should be getting out of this rain, don't you think?" he added, in a much lighter tone, and I broke out laughing.

"It doesn't matter much now, does it? I am already soaked to the skin!"

We did ultimately return to the cottage, of course, since Holmes's shivering had increased to the point where he could not stop his teeth from chattering, and I myself felt in dire need for a warm bed. It was Mycroft who came to fetch us, looking almost as relieved as his brother that we both were alive and relatively well.

Between us, we bundled Holmes up in his bed after he had changed into dry clothes, and I insisted upon re-bandaging his ankle before I saw to my own needs.

It was left to the boy from the village to fetch help to look after the carriage and horses, and Mycroft was to depart for Dover as soon as we were both settled to deliver the telegram and thus ensure the conviction of the Riders of Apocalypse.

As we moved the settee into Holmes's bedroom to allow me to keep my eyes on him while resting myself, Mycroft confided to me in a low voice as to not wake his slumbering brother that he had no doubts that should I have been killed in the accident, Sherlock Holmes, or at least his sanity, would not have survived the repeated ordeal. "He is lucky to have you, Doctor. You are the first person he has ever had so much confidence in after our dear aunt Celine, don't ever forget it, Dr Watson. It is the greatest gift Sherlock has to give."

Mycroft's statement made my heart swell once again with the warmth I had felt at Holmes's own confession. "Thank you, sir." I pressed his hand warmly as he departed. "And good luck to you."

I will not bore my readers with unnecessary description of our recovery and the criminal trial, in which Sherlock Holmes did appear as a witness after all. Only as much should be said that all three remaining members of the Riders of Apocalypse were convicted to be hanged on the charge of multiple murders and one attempted murder. The charge was executed on the last of that same month, which saw myself and Holmes already back in our London flat. While Holmes chafed at the restrictions this new injury continued to place upon him, his quips were kind-hearted, and our friendship felt the deeper for our experiences.

**-The End-**

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A/N: Thank you very much for reading and reviewing, and many apologies for the irregularity of the later updates. Hope you enjoyed the story!

Remember to leave a review! :D

The third part the trilogy is still in work, but be sure to look out for it.


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